Reacher grabbed the stock of the nearer guard’s gun and pushed it up toward the ceiling. He kicked the second guard in the balls. Butted the nearer guard in the face. And kicked the second guard in the head before he could crawl away.
Begovic ran to the door that led to the exit corridor. It was locked.
The guy in the suit didn’t move. He said, “You must be Reacher. Hell of an entrance.”
Reacher collected the rifles and slung them over his shoulder. “Who are you?”
The guy didn’t reply.
Begovic said, “His name’s Riverdale. The warden. He’s a complete asshole.”
Reacher said, “Riverdale? OK. Time to redeem yourself. These doors need to open.”
Riverdale stayed silent for a moment. Then he said, “No problem. I can do that. You just need to do one thing for me first.”
Reacher said nothing.
Riverdale pointed at Begovic. “Kill him. Blow his head off. Then you can walk out of here.”
Reacher shook his head. “I can see why you don’t want him walking around, free. But that doesn’t work for me.”
Riverdale said, “This is one of those the-good-of-the-many-versus-the-good-of-the-few things. Shoot him, that’s one dead person. If you don’t shoot him, I can’t let you take him with you. That’s a given. So the doors will stay locked until more of my guys arrive.”
“Have you got any more guys?”
“Plenty more. They’ll kill both of you. You’ll probably manage to kill me before you bleed out. So that’s three dead people. Three dead is worse than one. It’s three times as bad. That’s ethics 101. So I’m asking you. Do the moral thing. Hell, even Begovic probably sees the logic.”
Begovic said, “Screw the logic.”
Reacher said, “Logic. No logic. It still doesn’t work for me.”
Riverdale said, “OK. I’ll sweeten the pot. Kill him. We both walk. I give you a million dollars, cash. I hear you’re broke. This is your chance to live like a prince.”
“I have everything I need. Everything I want. Which makes me better off than any prince. So no dice.”
“Look around, Reacher. Look at this place. Do you really want to die here? Today?”
“Everyone has to die someday. Someplace.”
“But here? Now?”
“I don’t see that happening. Not unless a random meteorite lands on us.”
“No? So what’s your proposal?”
“Open the doors. Watch us walk out.”
“Be serious.”
“Open the doors. Shoot yourself in the head. Don’t watch us walk out.”
Riverdale was silent for a moment, then he said, “Are you married, Reacher?”
Reacher said, “No.”
“You ever been married?”
“No.”
“Girlfriend? Significant other?”
“No.”
“OK. Given you’re homeless and destitute, I’m guessing you don’t get much action. So I have an idea. Might tip the scales.” Riverdale took out his phone and speed-dialed a number. When the call was answered he said, “Reacher’s neutralized. I need to get back to my office. Turn the power back on and unlock the doors between S1 and there.”
Nothing happened for twenty seconds. Then there were simultaneous clicks from all sides of the room and the lights stepped up a level.
Riverdale started toward the exit door. He said, “Come with me.”
Reacher and Begovic followed through the covered corridor. The rat trap, as Reacher already thought of it. He was expecting guards to burst through the door behind them at any second. Or for Riverdale to hit the floor at some predetermined signal and bullets to tear into them from the front. They covered half the distance. Three-quarters. Took a left at the end. And finally made it into the next building. Riverdale led the way up a flight of concrete steps. He said, “This is the original admin block. Everyone else has moved to Hix’s new, fancy building. But not me.”
The steps opened onto a dingy corridor. It smelled vaguely of stewed cabbage and stagnant drains. There were windows on one side looking down over two of the exercise yards. And six office doors on the other side. At the far end a metal bar was fixed to the wall. Reacher figured it would be for cuffing people to, although it was in a very illogical place.
Riverdale ushered Reacher and Begovic down the length of the corridor and into the last office. The floor was bare concrete. There were fluorescent tubes in cages on the ceiling. Framed pictures of motorcycles on the walls. A couch against the far wall, covered in gold-colored velour. And a metal desk in the center of the room. Riverdale walked across to it and unlocked the top drawer. He took out a tablet computer, activated it with his thumbprint, opened a file of photographs, and handed it to Reacher. He said, “Take a look.”
Reacher scrolled through the pictures. They were all of women. The youngest would still be in her teens. The oldest, maybe in her sixties. They were all naked. And the pictures had all been taken in that room.
Riverdale said, “Take your time. Pick your favorite. I can have her here within an hour. You can do what you want to her. For as long as you want.”
Reacher said, “What’s in it for you?”
“I get Begovic.”
“And then?”
“You can go. Free as a bird.”
“How?”
“Same way you got in, I guess. Whatever that was.”
“You know how I got in. You figured it out from the doors I opened. You think I’m crazy? I’m not going back the same way.”
“OK. If I can guarantee you a safe way out, do we have a deal?”
“What kind of safe way?”
Riverdale loosened his tie, unfastened his top button, and fished a key on a chain out from under his shirt. “This opens a gate. A private one. Nobody knows about it but me.”
“Where?”
“Far wall of the warehouse. Brings you out on the safe side of the fence. Takes you to a path cut in the riverbank. All the way down to one of the old caves. It’s been used since this whole area was French. Pirates. Smugglers. Bootleggers. Now me. I’ve got stores in there. Food. A boat. An inflatable.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true. I was here when the prison was built. Added a few extras of my own. Had a feeling a day like this would come. When someone had to leave in a hurry. Thought it would be me, but hey.”
Reacher nodded. “One more question, then we can shake hands. What time is Begovic due to be collected?”
“Why?”
“I have a thirst for knowledge.”
Riverdale shrugged. “Twenty-five minutes from now, give or take.”
Reacher held out his right hand. Riverdale stepped closer to take it. Then Reacher drove the side of the tablet into Riverdale’s throat with his left. Riverdale’s larynx collapsed. He fell backward and landed in a sprawl on the couch. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t scream. He clawed at his own neck. Tears streamed from his eyes. Reacher hurled the tablet onto the ground and stomped it into fragments. He crossed to the desk and rummaged through the open drawer. Took out a twelve-inch ruler. Moved back and grabbed Riverdale by the shoulders. Flipped him over. Pinned him to the couch with his knee. Slid the ruler between the back of Riverdale’s neck and the steel chain that held the key. And started to turn.
The chain cut into Riverdale’s skin. Blood dribbled onto the couch. Reacher turned the ruler again. The chain bit deeper. Blood poured over the fabric faster than it could soak in. Reacher turned the ruler again. And again. And again. The chain cut Riverdale’s flesh. It tore his crushed windpipe. And finally sliced through his carotid. Blood sprayed right up the back of the couch and onto the wall. Reacher tilted Riverdale’s head a few degrees, pushed his neck down into the cushion, and held him there until his heart had nothing left to pump.
Reacher stood and looked at Begovic. He said, “What? I took a rational dislike to the guy. He got what he deserved.”
Begovic didn’t reply.
Reacher said, “You OK with what just happened?”
“Nothing happened.” Begovic’s face was blank. “I didn’t see a thing.”
Reacher nodded and started for the door. “Come on. Time to go.”
Begovic didn’t move. “What about the key? The secret exit?”
Reacher said, “We’re not using it.”
“Why not?”
“Either it doesn’t exist, or it’s booby-trapped.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s a universal principle. If something seems too good to be true, it is too good to be true.”
“I guess.” Begovic took one step, then stopped again. “I wish I’d understood that sixteen years ago.”
“What happened sixteen years ago?”
“I got arrested. The first time.”
Reacher stayed quiet.
Begovic said, “I met a girl. Wanted to buy her a ring. But I didn’t have any money. So a guy loaned me some. More than I needed. A friend of my dead uncle.”
“The money was dirty.”
“Right. But that wasn’t the problem. I didn’t get caught. He kept one of the bills with my prints on it. Said he’d tell the police I was passing forgeries unless I did something for him. And it was easy, so I thought, why not?”
“What did he want you to do?”
“Go certain places. Certain times. Where people would see me. That was all.”
“You were his patsy in waiting. When he felt the heat, he framed you.”
“Right. Then I got in more trouble. Most of that was on me. But it started with him.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Not your fault. Just tell me, how are we going to get out if we can’t use the key?”
“I have an idea. But we could use a diversion first.”
Reacher smashed the square of glass with his elbow and jabbed the button that lay behind it. A klaxon spooled up and began to wail. Red lights started to flash. Reacher joined Begovic at the window and they looked down at the exercise yards. Inmates started to appear from two of the units. A and B. Slowly at first. The men looked tentative. Uncertain. Then the streams of bodies grew faster. More boisterous. The yards started to fill up. Inmates jostled and pushed. Guards appeared in the watchtowers. One had a bullhorn as well as a rifle. He started to call out instructions. They were muffled. Indistinct. Whatever he was saying, the prisoners took no notice.
Reacher turned to Begovic. “Why is no one coming out of C Block?”
Begovic shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“Is the block in use?”
“Think so. It was before I went back in solitary. Used to see guys from there in the chow hall. Doubt they closed it down since then. Why would they? Where would everyone go?”
Reacher thought about his conversation with Maurice, the journalist, outside Hix’s house. About drugs. Maurice’s theory that Minerva was making them. Then supplying them to the captive population. Reacher had dismissed the idea when he found out about the organ trading. Now he was reconsidering. Maybe this wasn’t an either/or situation. Maybe Minerva was greedy enough to do both. He said, “These guys from C Block. Do you remember anything about them?”
“I guess. They were kind of cliquey. Sat together, mostly. Didn’t talk to the other prisoners. Seemed friendlier with the guards.”
Reacher led the way back down the concrete stairs and then along a bunch of corridors and walkways. It was a trial-and-error process. Three times they came to doors that wouldn’t open. The fire alarm created a wider accessible zone than usual between the custodial units and the exercise yards, but that didn’t extend to the perimeter of the prison. Its border wasn’t predictable. Reacher and Begovic had to thread their way back and forth, sometimes doubling back from blockages, sometimes looping around obstacles. Reacher expected to run into a guard at every doorway. Around every bend. But in that respect the diversion was working. Everyone’s attention was focused on the exercise yards. And Reacher didn’t have to worry about the cameras. There hadn’t been time for the monitors to be fixed. So after five long minutes, and a route only a drunk, crazy crow would fly, Reacher and Begovic wound up at the entrance to Unit C.
The door to the hub was standing open. It was wedged by a cinder block. Reacher led the way inside. The basic layout was the same as in the segregation unit. There was a square, central space with wings running perpendicular to each wall. The door to each one was open. The sound of voices and movement and activity was spilling out like they were in the foyer of an office or a workshop. The air was heavy with solvents and the hint of smoke.
Reacher started with the west wing. It was like the offspring of an art studio and a dormitory. There were six beds evenly spaced between areas full of easels covered with canvases. More were hanging on the walls. There were metal shelves overflowing with paint pots and jars of thinner and packs of brushes. Extra lights had been fixed on the ceiling. They were fitted with some kind of blue bulbs so that the whole space felt like it was bathed in daylight even though there were no windows. There were six guys in there. They had faded, stained aprons over their prison uniforms. They were all busy. One was working on a copy of a Monet. Two on Van Goghs. One on a Mondrian. One on a Picasso. One was flinging rough daubs of paint all over a long rectangular canvas that was stretched out on the floor. None of them paid any attention to Reacher or Begovic.
The north wing was the domain of four guys who were working on documents. Two with computers. Two by hand. Reacher looked over one of the manual guy’s shoulders. There were two pieces of paper in front of him. They were the same size. One was filled with writing. It was someone’s will. It painstakingly set out the names of people who were going to get a bunch of cash and jewelry and cars and a collection of antique shotguns. The second page was half-full. The script looked identical. It listed the same items. The same quantities. The same values. But the names of the people who were set to inherit were different. A woman who wasn’t mentioned at all in the first document was set to clean up with the second.
Reacher said, “Could you write a letter in someone else’s handwriting?”
The guy with the pen said, “Sure. Whose?”
“What if it was a suicide note?”
“ ’Course. Those are easy. No technical terms. Not too long. Not often, anyway.”
The east wing was full of sculptors and jewelers. Three guys were chipping away at blocks of marble. One had clay up to his elbows. One was welding giant girders together. One was hollowing out a tree trunk. Five were melting yellow and white metals in dented crucibles and adding stones of all kinds of colors to make rings and bracelets and pendants. There were posters on the wall showing enlarged versions of signature pieces by Tiffany and Cartier and Bvlgari. Some of the trinkets on the guys’ workbenches were pretty much indistinguishable to Reacher’s eye.
The south wing was home to six guys with computers. They were sitting on threadbare office chairs, staring at screens perched on beat-up, rickety desks and rattling away at cordless keyboards. Three of them were virtually inert, like robots, with just their fingers and eyes showing signs of life. The others were almost dancing in their seats like concert pianists or seventies rock musicians.
Reacher tapped one of the animated guys on the shoulder. He said, “Would you have a problem hacking into someone’s email?”
The guy stopped fidgeting and said, “Yeah. Huge problem. I only do it like fifty times a day.”
“You could read someone’s messages?”
“Read them. Alter them. Delete them. Copy them. Whatever you want.”