CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Sunday, November 14

4:13 a.m.

Chicago, IL

They’d watched the full twenty-four minute O’Donnell video twice and the short murder scene several more times. Sanchez’s story was grim and heartbreaking and Kim could easily see how Berenson and Dean drove him to the edge of madness, if not beyond it.

Hindsight being what it is, Kim identified a number of tactical mistakes O’Donnell had made which led to his death. Like watching a horror movie, Kim wanted to shout out a warning several times, but O’Donnell could not hear or heed warnings, then or now.

The video opened with a vital, attractive Dave O’Donnell seated at his desk. He was movie-star handsome, dressed in a dark suit, blue shirt, and a designer brand tie Kim often noticed around the necks of successful stockbrokers. Perhaps he’d rushed in from another event, because he seemed slightly breathless.

He began with an establishing statement for the video. “Scheduled conference with Jorge Sanchez’s brother, Jose. Friday night, November 5, 11:10 p.m. Jose called earlier today and requested the late meeting because he’s traveling through town and only has a short layover. He didn’t want to meet in a public place, so we could talk. He said he had something to discuss about Jorge’s share of the money. Wouldn’t say any more. I’ve never met Sanchez’s brother. Didn’t know he had a brother, actually. We weren’t close enough for that, I guess. Never saw Sanchez either, after we left the Army. He was killed by the scum who murdered the others back in California—”

He was interrupted by the buzzer Kim remembered, indicating a visitor had pushed the call button in the corridor. Kim wondered about O’Donnell’s choice of words. The “we” who had been so mistaken about Sanchez? The likely culprits were Neagley, Dixon and Reacher. And who were the “scum”? Did he mean Dean and Berenson?

O’Donnell stood, smoothed his hair with the flat of his palm, left the room and the next action was the two returning to O’Donnell’s office less than a minute later. O’Donnell was taller, fairer, and a thousand times more handsome than the leathery, gaunt Sanchez.

Maybe Sanchez identified himself or maybe O’Donnell recognized him. Either way, they walked into the frame laughing and seemed genuinely pleased to be together. Which was jarring because Sanchez would kill O’Donnell within the next fifty-one minutes, as cold-bloodedly as any murderer Kim had ever witnessed.

After the backslapping and pleased-to-see-you-vertical-and-above-ground guy stuff, O’Donnell suggested that Sanchez take a seat, but he declined. He said, “I’ve been sitting awhile and my legs get stiff and I’ve got another flight tonight. Okay if I walk around? I’m getting permission in case you still have that switchblade in your pocket.”

They chuckled and O’Donnell consented, but he didn’t deny the switchblade.

“Man, Sanchez,” O’Donnell said, “I can’t tell you how great it is to see you’re alive. I know we served only a short time together. And it was a long time ago. But you guys were closer to me than my own family, man. Too many of us are dead now. We’ll get the unit together. Have a few beers. Let’s really do it, okay?”

Sanchez coughed a little. “Could I get some water? My throat is parched. Room temperature, not chilled, if you have it.”

“Absolutely,” O’Donnell said as he hurried out. In the few seconds he was gone, Sanchez reached over and pressed the speakerphone button. The call connected but no words were spoken.

Kim pressed the pause button on the remote and turned to Neagley. “Can you identify the phone number?”

“It was a burner. We are working on identifying the location. No luck yet.”

Kim restarted the video.

O’Donnell returned with a plastic bottle of water and handed it to Sanchez, who opened it, took a swig, and dropped it into his jacket pocket.

If O’Donnell found the water bottle stashing odd, he didn’t mention it. Instead, he asked, “Where’ve you been? We were in California and we were trying to find out what happened to you guys. And the news was bad, man. We found Franz and Orozco. They were dropped out of a helicopter onto the desert floor. While they were still alive, Sanchez. Can you imagine? We never found Swan. Or you. We looked, but we failed.”

Sanchez said nothing.

O’Donnell swiped his sweaty face with his palm, forehead to chin, and ran both hands, fingers splayed, through his hair. “We made them pay, Sanchez. You know we did. And we did what we could for the families. We collected some spoils and Dixon converted them and we shared it, with extra for the families, not so much for the rest of us.” He smiled at Sanchez, shook his head. “I can’t believe you made it out alive. How’d you do it? You’re one tough bastard, aren’t you? Reacher always said that about you.”

Sanchez seemed more agitated the more O’Donnell talked. His pacing was jerky, and deteriorated as O’Donnell continued. Sanchez’s lips pressed into a hard line and his brow furrowed into deep horizontal lines. Nostrils flexed.

When O’Donnell finally wound down, Sanchez seemed to have a little trouble getting started. But once he began, his words flowed nonstop. Even the third time she heard it, Kim felt punched by an opener that was almost as shocking as his close.

“I’m confused, Dave. I thought you’d feel a little bit guilty, at least.”

“What are you talking about, man?”

Where Sanchez had halted his circuit of the room, he was looking right into the camera. His expression was chilling. Wrong. “You left me for dead,” he said, quietly, almost pleasantly. “Never even tried to find me. Can you imagine what it’s like to be out of your mind with pain because some goons beat your shins to bone meal with iron rods? And then you’re laying on a pile of rotting garbage in a desert landfill for three days, when the summer heat reaches 110 degrees, watching the circling buzzards just waiting to pick your carcass clean?”

O’Donnell’s face was ashen now. Maybe he’d started to pick up on the fact that Sanchez was clearly mentally unbalanced. Maybe he remembered he was sitting in a deserted building, too late at night, too late in the week. Maybe he just figured out that this could go bad very quickly.

To his credit, O’Donnell remained seated and calm. “That’s not how it went, Sanchez. We looked, and we looked hard. Came up empty.” Sanchez had started his circuit again, so when O’Donnell next spoke, he had to crane his neck to find him. “Do you need money? Because I’m doing okay now. I can help. Dixon and Neagley, too. They’d help us out.”

Sanchez flashed a tight grin that revealed a gold tooth. “How about Reacher? Does he have money? Is he going to help out?”

“If we can find him, he might. The guy’s a drifter now. No address. But Neagley found him once. She might be able to do it again. How much do you need?” O’Donnell talked like a hostage negotiator. He didn’t seem afraid, but he should have been. Maybe he was.

“I need $65 million, Dave,” Sanchez said quietly. “How long will it take you to get that together?”

“What in hell are you talking about? You think we got $65 million? That’s cra—” He stopped himself. Took a breath. “We didn’t get $65 million. Not even close. I got about a hundred grand. Like I said, I really needed it. Spent it probably in the first ten days.”

“What happened to the rest of the money?” Sanchez sounded encouraging, almost reasonable again.

“Some of it was in a Swiss bank. We couldn’t touch it. Dixon had to liquidate the rest. Like I said, we took care of the families. We repaid Neagley’s expenses. Then we all got equal shares,” O’Donnell said, matter-of-factly. If he suspected Sanchez was reaching the breaking point, he didn’t show any concern.

“Where’d you stash the rest of the money? Reacher? Swiss banks? What?” Sanchez asked.

“I told you, man. We divided it up, just like I said.”

And then the final two minutes replayed again, no less shocking than the first time.

When the video stopped, Kim asked Neagley. “Does his story track?”

Neagley looked tired now. As tired as the rest of them. She had dark circles under her eyes. Her clothes had long ago lost their starch, but she was as stiff as ever.

“Not that it can possibly matter at this point, but yes. We found the paper trail. We talked to witnesses. Confirmed. Sanchez was tortured and his legs were broken and he was left for dead by the same New Age guys who killed the rest of our team: Franz and Snow and Orozco. But Sanchez was the first one they tried to kill and they hadn’t figured out the helicopter technique yet. They tossed him in a landfill, maybe thinking the crime techs would never sort out all the trace evidence because his body would be so contaminated and decomposed by the time it was discovered.” She raked her hands through her hair. Drew a breath. “He was eventually found and eventually completed surgery and rehab. And eventually he moved to Mexico and married Orozco’s widow and adopted her kids. By all accounts, they were living their version of happily-ever-after when this started.”

Even Neagley’s dry recital of Sanchez’s ordeal sounded horrific to Kim. Sanchez’s story in his own words was that much worse. Kim had watched the video several times, partly hoping that the retelling would blunt its impact, but it did not. She vacillated between wanting to know the rest of Sanchez’s story and avoiding it as long as possible.

She could only guess how Gaspar must be feeling. Maybe he’d had enough, too. His next words were professional and detached.

“So Dean and Berenson figure Reacher has $65 million,” Gaspar said. “That’s why and how he lives off the grid.”

Kim was more than ready to detach, too. “Dean and Berenson want the money. They figure Reacher’s team has some of it or knows where it is. They figure it belongs to them.” Kim looked at Neagley. “Where did the money come from? New Age?”

Neagley shrugged. Flipped off the screen. Stood and poured herself a drink. Said nothing.

Kim tried again. “Five years ago, four members of Reacher’s team were tortured. Three were killed. Sanchez almost dead. Berenson and Dean did all that? And Reacher let them get away?” she asked, unable to hide her incredulity. “Sounds like a monumental screw-up, doesn’t it?”