CHAPTER TEN

Parnell searched the apartment with Reacher on his mind. The stooges said Reacher had killed the Colonel. But had Reacher killed the wife and kid, too? Was Reacher that kind of guy?

He shook his head again. He couldn’t make that idea track. The notion didn’t sit well.

He’d reviewed Reacher’s entire military file, including the classified operations. Repeatedly. In detail.

Reacher’s file reflected his accomplishments as an excellent killing machine, for sure. One of the best the army had ever trained. So much so that during the file review, Parnell had developed a measure of respect for his fellow warrior.

He’d have been proud to have Reacher under his command. At least, in the early years.

Later in his career, Reacher went rogue one too many times. The last time, he was invited to leave the army and told not to let the door hit him in the ass on the way out. He’d been lucky to avoid a court martial, and not for the first time.

Parnell understood the situation clearly.

Reacher was not controllable.

Which meant unacceptable for the army.

The one thing the army demanded above everything else was strict compliance with orders. Reacher, on the other hand, seemed incapable of following orders of any kind.

Parnell would have kicked him out, too. The decision was entirely justified.

But nothing Parnell had found in Reacher’s history suggested he was the kind of man who would kill women and children. At least, not intentionally.

Maybe the mother and child had been collateral damage, though.

Parnell shrugged. It happens. Combat missions were notoriously unpredictable.

Whatever the reason, and Reacher might have been at the root of it, the Colonel’s apartment was not occupied and hadn’t been for a very long time.

Which was what he’d hoped to find.

So far, so good.

Today’s visit was recon only. Get the kind of feel for things that he couldn’t absorb from documents. Confirm the layouts he’d studied in the public records. Locate the cash. Figure out how he’d get it out of here.

Assuming everything checked out, he’d implement his plan to remove the nine million. Relocate it to his numbered offshore account. Dispose of the key and leave.

Simple enough. Simple plans were always easier to execute.

After the nine million was safely stashed, the next phase was to find the rest of his money and collect it, too.

The last contract he’d pointed the Colonel’s way was the largest single payday for them both. It had yielded twenty-one million dollars for each of them. The nine million here might be what was left of the Colonel’s share of that deal.

On top of the forty-six million Parnell had previously accumulated, the Colonel’s nine would make a tidy fifty-five million nest egg.

Parnell had everything set up. He’d been planning a long time. A place where a man could live like a king on the kind of money Parnell had put together the past ten years. One thing for sure, he would never again be too cold or too hot or too anything at all.

Never.

On the architectural plans for the building and this apartment, he’d identified the room most likely to contain the Colonel’s vault. He made his way back to the master bedroom.

The master had the same high ceilings as the other rooms. The walls were painted a chalky eggshell. A king-sized four-poster bed with matching bedside tables, armoire, desk, and chair.

On the desk was another copy of the same photo Parnell had seen in the kid’s room. The girl and her mother were both beautiful. Too bad if they were dead.

Nothing in this room was large enough to hold a vault or nine million dollars except the two closets. Parnell crossed the room and opened the smaller door. The closet was large for New York City but small for anywhere else. It was filled with women’s clothes. Expensive ones, he imagined. He swept the clothes to the side to see the back wall of the closet. No vault door there, as expected.

Parnell moved to the second closet, where the money should be. The first door opened to a shallow recess and then a smaller door with an electronic keypad next to it. He’d brought tools to disable the keypad’s locking mechanism, but he saw that he wouldn’t need them.

The small vault door stood wide open. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his belly as he reached inside and pulled a chain hanging from the ceiling. The interior light came on.

He stood rooted to the floor, looking straight ahead, unwilling to believe his eyes.

The chamber was six feet by three feet. The floor was littered with thick plastic wrap. The kind of strong plastic that should be sliced with a blade because it would take a strong man’s effort to tear.

The plastic on the floor, the light bulb on the ceiling, and four walls. Nothing else.

His money was gone.

Nitro Mack’s nostrils flared, and his face flushed crimson. His fists clenched. He felt the familiar strength powered by rage coursing through his body.

Not yet. Not yet.

He spent another thirty minutes searching the apartment. Somewhere, the Colonel had kept the documents Parnell needed to collect his retirement funds. He knew only that they were safely hidden in offshore accounts. He hadn’t wanted to know more while he remained on active duty.

That was then.

When he’d covered every possible hiding place, Parnell was forced to admit that the documents were not there.

The Colonel would not have hidden them out of arm’s reach.

Which could only mean that the proof of ownership he needed to collect his nest egg had been stolen, too.

Peck. No wonder that damn sweaty little midget was nervous. He’d rushed off quickly because he knew the money was gone. He had to know.

He was the one in charge. Not the man in charge. He wasn’t so much a man as a toady little creature.

But Peck knew where Parnell’s money was. Oh, yeah. He knew.

And Parnell would squeeze his fat throat until his eyes popped out unless he coughed up the exact location.

In fact, he might kill the little twerp either way. Why not?

Choking the life out of Simon Peck would calm Parnell like nothing else he could do right at the moment.

He smiled. He always felt calmer with a simple plan.