The clock in Reacher’s head told him it was time to leave. He grabbed Begovic and led the way out of Unit C. He was still convinced they would cross paths with a guard. Or a squad of guards called back on duty to deal with the ruckus that had resulted from the fire alarm. But again the unrest served their purpose. They made it to Unit S1 undetected.
The two guys who had been backing Riverdale’s play were still on the floor. They were still unconscious. Reacher dragged them through the door he had disabled and shoved them into the preparation cell. He gave each another kick in the head to make sure they wouldn’t make an unwelcome appearance any time soon. He did the same to the pair of medics he’d left there earlier. He removed the magazine and dumped one of the rifles on the operating table. Checked the tan SIG. Then he went back out into the hub.
Reacher unslung the other rifle from his shoulder and said to Begovic, “Put your hands behind your back like they’re tied. Look at the floor. Play along with whatever I say.”
A minute later the door to the unit’s south wing swung open. Two guys came through. They had a heavy-duty gurney. One was pushing. One was pulling. The guy in the lead said, “What’s the story here? Why—”
The guy stopped talking. He was looking at Reacher. He couldn’t understand why someone he didn’t recognize was there. Apparently in authority. Who wasn’t part of the program. He glanced across to Begovic. He couldn’t understand why the prisoner was standing upright. Why he was still conscious. Why he wasn’t boxed up, ready for transport. The guy’s brain struggled for a second. It was trying to fit all the pieces together. Then it quit the puzzle. It didn’t matter what the exact picture was. Because whatever shape it took, something was wrong. That was obvious. So he let go of the gurney and his hand darted toward his pocket.
Reacher didn’t know if the guy was going for a gun or a phone. He didn’t wait to find out. He stepped forward and spun the rifle around as he moved. Then he drove the flat end of its stock into the bridge of the guy’s nose. The guy collapsed onto the gurney then rolled off its side. He crashed down onto the floor and lay still, facedown, with blood pooling steadily around his head.
“Don’t move.” Reacher reversed the rifle and pointed it at the guy who’d been pushing the gurney. “You can show us the way out. Or I can take you to one of the exercise yards. There are about a hundred guys there who would make you very welcome. That’s for sure. OK. You have five seconds to decide.”
Self-preservation won the day. Reacher and Begovic followed the guy through the unit’s south wing. The cell doors were all open. There was no sound from inside any of them. Just the squeaking of three pairs of shoes on the concrete floor. A door was set into the wall at the far end. It was made of steel. Painted gray. It looked new. Shiny. The guy who was in the lead held his ID card up to a white plastic square set into the frame. The lock clicked and the guy pushed the door open. It led to a covered walkway. It was narrower than the other ones Reacher had been through. There were no lines painted on the ground. It had solid corrugated metal in place of open mesh. The air was hot and stale. It ran straight for thirty yards. There was a dogleg to the left. Then it ran straight for another forty yards. There was another gray steel door at the end, which opened into a kind of large shed. There were floor-to-ceiling shelves on two sides. They were full of janitorial supplies and prison uniforms and cans of dried food. A van was parked in the center. It was dark blue and shiny, like the one Reacher had seen outside the Riverside Lodge. It had been backed into the space. In front of it, in the middle of the opposite wall, there was a roll-up vehicle door. No other people were in sight. Reacher looked through the driver’s window. The keys were in the ignition.
Reacher said, “What opens the exit door?”
The guy said, “There’s a remote clipped to the visor. Hit the button, the door rolls up. Approach the gate in the inner fence. It’ll open. Pull forward toward the gate in the outer fence. The inner one will close on its own. Then flash your headlights three times. The guy in the booth will let you out.”
“Flash the headlights. Really?”
“That’s the signal.”
Reacher saw that the guy wouldn’t meet his eye. So he opened the van’s rear door and said, “Get in. You’re riding with Begovic. When we’re clear of here I’ll come and let you out. But first I’ll knock on the bulkhead. If the door opens and Begovic hasn’t heard a knock, he’s going to shoot out one of your kneecaps.”
The guy shook his head and took a step back. “Wait. You don’t flash your lights. You don’t do anything. Just approach the outer gate. The officer in the booth has orders to let this van in or out, any time, no record, no search. Don’t worry. You won’t be penned in for long.”
Penned in. Two words Reacher did not like the sound of. Not when they applied to him.
Reacher didn’t make the guard get in the back of the van. Because Reacher didn’t know Begovic well enough. He couldn’t predict how Begovic would stand up to the pressure. If he got flustered or showed signs of panic there was too much danger the guard would go for the gun. He could make a noise. Alert whoever was on duty in the booth. Begovic could wind up taking a stray bullet. Or a deliberate one. So Reacher took a different approach. He knocked the guy out, rolled his body onto the bottom shelf at the side of the room, and piled a bunch of balled-up orange jumpsuits in front of it.
The van’s engine started at the first turn of the key. The exit door opened at the first press of the remote. The gate in the inner fence rolled aside the moment the van approached. It slid back into place the second the van was through. Then nothing more happened. The outer gate stayed where it was. It was completely still. Inert. Like it was welded shut. Or it was just another fixed panel in the fence. The electrified fence. That was on their left. On their right. And now effectively in front and behind. There was no way forward. No way back. Nowhere to go even if they abandoned the vehicle.
The outer gate didn’t move.
Reacher looked at the booth. He couldn’t see inside. The glass was mirrored. Maybe no one was there. Maybe the fire alarm protocol required the guard to assist with the evacuation on the other side of the prison. Or maybe the guard was still at his post, waiting for some kind of signal. Something Reacher didn’t know about. Something he had to do or the guard would raise the alarm. Reinforcements would come from behind, Reacher thought. Through the warehouse. Heavily armed. He checked the mirror. The roll-up door was still closed. For the moment.
The outer gate didn’t move.
Reacher’s foot was on the brake. He was thinking about shifting it to the gas pedal. There was no point trying to smash through the gate. It would be too strong. Designed to stop a much heavier vehicle. With a run up. Not from a standing start. Reacher had no doubt about that. But he figured he could cause a dent. Get some of the truck’s metal in contact with the mesh or the frame. Then he could open the van’s back door. The cargo space was fitted with shelves. He had seen them when he was getting Begovic situated. He could tear a couple out. Use them to connect the rear of the van to the inner fence. Maybe cause a short circuit. Maybe kill the power for long enough to climb over. If he could find something to cover the razor wire.
The outer gate didn’t move.
Reacher looked down. There were mats on the floor. In both foot wells. They were made of rubber. Heavy duty. Made to protect the vehicle’s floor from boots soaked with Mississippi rain. And thick enough to save a person from getting cut to ribbons. Maybe. There was only one way to find out. Reacher started to lift his foot. Then he stopped. And pressed down again for a moment.
The outer gate twitched. It shuddered. Then it lurched to the side.
Begovic switched from the cargo area to the passenger seat when they were a safe distance from the prison but he didn’t say a word on the rest of the drive to Bruno Hix’s home. He pressed himself back against his seat and stayed completely still apart from his eyes, which were constantly flicking from one side to the other. Reacher didn’t speak, either. He didn’t want to tell Begovic there was a kid waiting for him at the house until they were close. He didn’t want to give him the chance to think about it too much. To freak out. But at the same time Reacher didn’t feel right making meaningless small talk when he was holding back such a significant piece of information. The farther he drove, the less sure he felt about the choice he’d made. Then all of a sudden he was very glad he’d made no mention of Begovic’s kid.
There were two vans parked outside Hix’s house. One was white with Illinois plates. It looked to be a few years old. It showed plenty of signs of having lived a hard life and it was sitting at the side of the road. The other van was black. It had Mississippi plates. It looked new. Shiny. It was in great shape. All the way from its rear fender to its windshield. But its wings and hood and nose were ruined. Someone had used it to ram Hix’s gates. Hard. It had shoved them open maybe four feet.
Reacher pulled over behind the white van. He told Begovic to stay put even if he heard noises from the house. He climbed out. He had the tan SIG in his hand. He checked both other vehicles’ cabs and cargo areas. There were no people. Then he made his way through the gap in the gates, across the drive, past the VW, and up the steps.
The front door was open. Reacher peered into the hallway. He could see no one. He could hear nothing. He crept inside. Headed left, toward the kitchen. Where he had left Hix and Brockman and Carpenter, tied up and immobile.
The room was empty.
Reacher didn’t care too much about the Minerva guys. But he was worried about Hannah and Jed.
He could see two possibilities. Whoever had arrived in the vans had a third vehicle, which they used to abduct everyone from the house. Or everyone, including the hostiles, was still in the house or on the grounds.
Reacher favored the second option. The first would involve a very large vehicle. It would need to hold a minimum of eight people. And it made no sense to abandon the white van. It looked serviceable and the back was crammed with all kinds of specialized tools and equipment.
There was a sound in the next room. A creak. It was quiet. It happened just once. But Reacher had definitely heard something. He crept to the door. Listened. Heard nothing else. Took hold of the handle. Jerked the door open. And jumped back to avoid getting hit by a guy who tumbled onto the floor, at Reacher’s feet.
It was Maurice. The journalist.
Reacher said, “The hell are you doing in there?”
Maurice said, “Hiding. Waiting for you. What took you so long?”
“Where are the others? Hannah? The kid?”
“Out back. I think.”
“You think?”
“I think they all are.”
“All?”
“Hannah. The kid. Hix and Brockman. Carpenter. And two new guys.”
“From Minerva?”
“No. They weren’t here to rescue anyone. Definitely not. It was like they were looking for Carpenter. Like he was their target.”
“Why did they leave you?”
“They didn’t know about me. I was in the laundry room. I went in there hoping it was a pantry. I was starving.”
“They didn’t search?”
“I was hiding. I’m good at it. I’ve had plenty of practice.”
“So did you see what happened? Or only hear?”
“I saw some. They didn’t search immediately. They came crashing in. Hannah went for her gun. But they were too fast.”
“Are they armed?”
“One guy, the younger one, he had a gun. The older one had a kind of flask and a cloth. He kicked Hannah’s gun away then shoved the cloth in her face. She fell down. Jed tried to rush the guy. He kind of bounced off and the guy grabbed him and shoved the cloth in his face and he fell down, too. Then they searched. I only listened after that.”
“What did they want with Carpenter?”
“One of them, the older one, I think, because he had this tone like he was in charge, he started questioning him. It was kind of weird. He said Carpenter had sold some liver that was bad and it had killed his son. He wanted to know where it came from. If Hix and Brockman were involved.”
“What did Carpenter say?”
“Nothing. He wouldn’t answer. The older guy said that was no problem. He had something better to loosen his tongue. Then I guess he used whatever was on the cloth to knock them out. I heard some thuds, then a bunch of slipping and scuffling. Five times. I guess they dragged everyone out back.”
“Why out back?”
“Because I didn’t hear any vehicles and they weren’t at the front. I looked. To be honest I was going to run. Then I remembered you were coming back. Figured I should stay and warn you.”
“You did the right thing.” Reacher started toward the door.
“There’s one thing I don’t get.” Maurice stayed where he was. “These guys want revenge for this fatal poisoning. What’s that got to do with Minerva? There are no animals at their prisons. The company doesn’t own any farms. Where are they getting the livers from?”
“It wasn’t food poisoning that killed this guy’s kid.” Reacher grabbed the door handle. “And the liver didn’t come from an animal. Not one with four legs.”
Reacher crossed the hallway, ran up the stairs, and went into the center room at the rear of the house. It was a bedroom. It had a polished wood floor. Sleek, pale furniture. And three tall windows covered by white curtains, all closed, which hung down to the floor. Reacher crossed to the center window and peered around the edge of the curtain. He was looking through a glass door, across the balcony, and down onto the big square of grass he had seen when he first broke into the house. The difference now was the people who were there. Hix, Brockman, and Carpenter. Naked. Hanging by their wrists from the lighting gantry over the stage. Immobile. Hannah and Jed, on the grass to the right of the stage. Facedown. Dressed. Also immobile. And two guys Reacher hadn’t seen before. They were ladling some kind of gel out of a large barrel and slopping it into ice troughs they’d taken from the bar.
Reacher ran back down the stairs, through the front door, and around to the rear of the building. He stepped up onto the porch. The new guys set the third trough down on the edge of the stage. They were standing on either side of the barrel. They heard the footsteps. Spun around. Pulled out guns. And aimed at Reacher.
The older guy said, “Drop the weapon. Then get on the ground. Facedown.”
The breeze was blowing directly toward Reacher. Past the two guys. Past their barrel.
Reacher said, “Not going to happen. I have no quarrel with you. I’m here for the woman and the kid. They come with me. The idiots you strung up? Do what you want with them.”
The guy shook his head. “The woman and the kid are going nowhere. They saw us.”
Reacher was picking up a faint smell. Something familiar. He said, “They caught a glimpse at best. They’re no threat.”
“Doesn’t matter. They can put us at the scene. So can you.”
Gasoline, mainly, Reacher thought. And benzene. And something else. Then he made the connection. The combination of ingredients. He looked at the barrel. It was almost empty. Almost. But not quite. He said, “Not my problem. I’m taking my friends and I’m leaving.”
“You’re in no position to be telling us what’s going to happen.”
Reacher said, “I’m in the perfect position.” Then he fired. At the barrel. The bullet pierced the plastic and the remaining napalm ignited instantly. The sides buckled. The shock wave knocked both the guys over. And a tongue of orange flame engulfed the younger one. He screamed and writhed and squeezed off one unaimed round before he lost his grip on his gun.
Reacher jumped down from the porch, stepped forward, and shot the younger guy in the head. The older guy was on his back. He wasn’t moving. He had escaped the flames completely. But there was a red stain on his shirt. Low down on the left side of his abdomen. It was wet. And it was growing. His buddy’s bullet had passed right through him.
The guy rolled over and forced himself onto his hands and knees. He tried to crawl toward the stage. Reacher stepped across and blocked his path.
“Move.” The guy’s voice was somewhere between a croak and a whisper.
Reacher stayed still.
The guy nodded toward Carpenter. “Him. Got to make him talk.”
Reacher said, “You’re going to bleed to death.”
“He killed my son. He has a supplier. I need a name.”
“Your son got a transplant?”
The guy nodded, then slumped down onto his side. “His liver was toast. He went to rehab after rehab. Nothing stuck. The regular doctors wouldn’t help. So I found a clinic. On a ship. They put in a new liver. But it was bad. Kyle died.”
Reacher said, “The other guys you strung up. They’re his suppliers. They run a prison. Find inmates no one will miss and sell them for their organs to be harvested.”
The guy raised his head. “That true?”
Reacher nodded.
The guy said, “Help me then. Shoot them.”
“No.”
“Why not? You shot Graeber. My friend.”
“That guy? He was on fire. It was a kindness. I’ll make sure the prison operation gets closed down. Permanently. But I’m not going to kill anyone in cold blood.”
“Please. For my son. His name was Kyle Emerson. He was twenty-two.”
“No.”
The guy struggled back onto his hands and knees and crawled another yard.
Reacher picked up a shirt from a pile of clothes at the side of the stage. He held it out and said, “Keep going and you’ll bleed out. Stop, press this against the wound, call 911, maybe you’ll have a chance.”
The guy kept on crawling. He made it to the front of the stage. Stretched up. One hand scrabbled for grip on the wooden surface. The other grabbed the rim of an ice trough. The guy tried to haul himself up but only managed to pull the trough off the stage. It was full of cream-colored gel. The gel flooded across his chest. It flowed down to the front of his pants and mingled with the blood that had soaked into the material. He fell back. Rolled over. Clawed his way onto his knees. Straightened his back. Pulled a box of matches out of his pocket and turned to look at Reacher.
“Now I’m glad you didn’t shoot these assholes.” The guy took out a match. “Now they’ll get what they deserve.”
The guy struck the match. A flame flared at its tip. He seemed mesmerized by it for a moment. Then his knees buckled. He toppled backward again. He dropped the match. It landed on his stomach. It was still alight.
Reacher jumped away. It was an instinctive response. A reaction to fire that was baked deep into the back of his brain. Impossible to resist. He felt the heat on his face and arms. Heard a crump sound. Thought he heard the guy laugh. Thought he could see him smile. Then he raised the SIG and shot him between the eyes.
The guy’s body lay still. The flames danced on.
Reacher heard two sets of footsteps approaching. Both were cautious. And they were separate. Maurice appeared on the porch first. Then Begovic. Maurice stood still. Begovic jumped down and headed toward the stage. Toward his former captors. Then he changed course. He crossed to where Jed was lying and stood and looked down at the kid.
Maurice said quietly, “Are they dead?”
Reacher pointed to the burned-up guys. “Those two are. The others are drugged. They’ll be fine.”
“Should we cut the Minerva guys down?”
Reacher shook his head. “Not yet. There’s one more person hiding in the woodwork. Maybe more than one. We need these guys as bait.”