CHAPTER TWO

The Boss had said their movements would be unrestricted inside the gate. Except for certain areas where armed guards were posted. It would be easy enough to avoid those.

“Notice anything worrisome since you were here last?” Otto asked.

He glanced her way. She had her head turned to look out her window, scanning for threats, probably. Especially from behind, she looked like a tiny Asian doll. The top of her deceptively fragile-looking shoulder rested well below the bottom edge of the big sedan’s window. If she hadn’t put that alligator clamp on her seatbelt at the retractor, it could have sliced her head off her neck in an accident.

“Well?” she said, more insistent this time, scanning through the front windshield now. When he still didn’t reply, she glanced his way.

He shrugged, combed his hair with splayed fingers, turned his head and made a show of looking around.

MacDill Air Force Base was both a country club for military families and a war zone. A strange combination of all-inclusive resort and weaponized death star. It boasted a beach and golf course and a full-featured campground for veterans dubbed “Famcamp,” where his last trip here had ended in disaster. Inside the buildings you’d find standard Government Issue everything.

Then there were the heavily armed guards protecting the strategic commands that earned the base its lofty importance to national defense and control over state-of-the-art killing machines around the world.

Before his injury, Gaspar brought his kids to the annual MacDill AirFest. He’d been here on special assignments while he was in the army, and once or twice since he’d been assigned to the FBI’s Miami Field Office. He hoped today’s arrest would go more smoothly than his last one here.

“It’s a simple question, Chico,” Otto said, continuing her recon.

“Wish I had a simple answer.” He took in the view through the glass again—right, left, front and in the rear view mirror—seeking any unfamiliar additions to the geography.

The base consumed every inch of the small peninsula jutting out into Tampa Bay. The last time he’d been here it was to attend a retirement dinner in the officers’ club, which had since been demolished. Nothing abnormal in that. When new facilities were required, it generally meant old stuff was demolished and replaced.

Today’s event was a perfect example. Hundreds of civilians were expected at a temporary outdoor stage like it had always been there. The chosen site was close to the Strategic Operations Command Memorial Wall honoring the fallen. Nearby, multiple command centers for war. Death and life combined in paradise, to jarring effect.

“What time is Weston scheduled to be arrested?” he asked.

“After the service,” she said, checking her Seiko. “Maybe three hours from now. Plenty of time to get what we came for and get out before the arresting agents move.”

“Plenty of time for all sorts of things to happen.” He shrugged as if unconcerned, but figured she knew better.

Building a current file on Jack Reacher—filling in the blanks after he’d left the Army’s 110th Special Investigations Unit—had seemed routine initially. Until they read the background file, which was thin. Too thin. Since, they’d been pulling the scabs off old wounds Reacher had caused. It meant infiltrating enemy territory every time. Both Gaspar and Otto had fresh scars to prove it.

No reason to believe Weston would be an easier interview subject than the others had been. In fact, from what they’d learned about the man, there was every reason to believe he’d be worse.

They’d been warned to watch out for Reacher, who came, destroyed and departed like a liger. Neither he nor Otto needed to be reminded to watch for him, but Gaspar wanted to believe it unlikely Reacher would try to get Weston today. Their feud was sixteen years old and surely even Reacher might have lost track of Weston in all that time.

“Weston has stayed out of Reacher’s way all this time,” Otto said. “So why is Weston sticking his neck out by attending this particular memorial ceremony? He could have come any time. The base holds these generic memorials for military family members to pay their respects every year. Weston contacted them a month ago and said he wanted to attend this particular service. It doesn’t make any sense, does it?”

“Not to me,” Gaspar replied. “So we do what we do.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning we stay alert. We’re missing something important, Sunshine.”

Her tone was hard in reply. “So what else is new?”

Gaspar parked the sedan an assured clear distance from civilian traffic around the memorial site, which seemed to have a disproportionate number of handicapped parking spaces, and they stepped out into the warm November sunshine.

Gaspar stretched like a lizard. After the past few weeks in frigid cold, he’d forgotten how good Florida sunshine could feel a few days before Thanksgiving.

Otto watched him from just over the hood of the sedan, but said nothing.

When he stepped around the car, they began walking toward the memorial site, keeping a few yards’ distance from other early arrivals. Some were in wheelchairs. Some moved jerkily on new prosthetic limbs. One mystery solved: the excess of handicapped spaces. The memorial service was an annual event to honor fallen members of military families. Many attendees were wounded veterans themselves.

Gaspar’s limp was pronounced at first, but eased with exercise, as it usually did.

“I know you’re running through it again in your head,” Gaspar said with a grin to distract her from his limping. “Just verbalize for me while you’re at it. Another run-through never hurts.”

She scowled as if he’d falsely accused her. He hadn’t. She never stopped thinking, analyzing, crunching data in her head, even if it was the same data, over and over. He didn’t complain. Her odd habits had already saved his ass more than once.

“The subject is retired Army Lieut. Col. Alfred Weston.” She rattled off the few important facts they’d received in the Boss’s materials: “Sixteen-plus years ago, Weston was posted here on a classified assignment. No details in the file. Weston’s wife and three children were murdered. Reacher somehow became the lead Army investigator on the case. He thought Weston was the killer.”

“Why?”

“Who knows?” she said, as if she was slightly irritated at Reacher’s unfathomable behavior. Which she probably was.

“But Reacher couldn’t prove Weston did it,” Gaspar continued for her, “and it turned out the real shooter was arrested quickly by the locals.” He fingered the Tylenol in his pocket. He’d swallow another one when she wasn’t watching. His doctors prescribed narcotic pain medication, but he couldn’t risk taking it. Tylenol was the strongest thing he’d allow himself while they were working.

She said, “After the killer’s arrest, the official investigation of Weston ended.”

“Unofficially, Reacher wouldn’t let it go,” Gaspar went on. Reacher never let anything go once he had his teeth into it. Otto was the same way. For sheer bulldog tenacity, Reacher and Otto were as alike as bookends.

“Weston’s been living abroad,” Otto said, “Middle East mostly, since he left the Army under a cloud of Reacher’s making.” She stopped talking abruptly, as if she didn’t want to mention the rest.

Gaspar’s right leg was feeling stronger. The cramping easing. Limp nearly under control. Pain ever-present, sure, but he could handle pain. He’d been handling it a good long while.

“And now,” Otto said, “Weston’s accused of major crimes against the U.S. Government. Various forms of corruption, mostly, related to the private security company he operates. A few allegations of using unauthorized force and excessive force. Suspected manslaughter of civilians is at the center of it. A lot of conflicting evidence. Nothing actually proved so far, but plenty to support an arrest and interrogation.” She hesitated half a breath. “This is the first time Weston’s been on American soil in the past sixteen years.”

Same facts he’d memorized on the plane. He hadn’t missed anything. He still didn’t like it.

Gaspar mulled for a couple more steps before he asked, “Why come back at all? He’s got nothing here. Why not just stay offshore and make Uncle Sam send covert operations after him if we wanted him badly enough?”

She shrugged as if the answer didn’t matter, when Gaspar knew it did.

“Once they snatch him,” she said, “he’ll be locked up and off limits to us. We need to get to him today.” She took another breath and glanced again at the plain Seiko on her narrow wrist. “We’ve got less than an hour before the service starts.”

Gaspar felt his eyebrows knitting together. Their mission still wouldn’t make sense. “Why should Weston tell us anything useful?”

“The Boss says Weston blames Reacher for his troubles and wants to even the score. We’re supposed to give Weston that chance and strongly encourage him to take it.” Unconsciously, perhaps, she patted her gun under her blazer.

“We’re striking out with Reacher’s friends so we’ll squeeze his enemies instead?” A harsh, dry chuckle escaped Gaspar’s lips. “Sounds a little like sticking your head in the mouth of a hungry carnivore doesn’t it?”

Otto said nothing.