Jude Hardin - The Reacher Code - Timestream 1

“That’s what I was thinking,” Linda said.

Stahler looked at his watch again, exited the lounge without saying anything.

Diane Givens.

He needed to get to her before Security Forces got to her.

If Wahlman was still with her, maybe this wouldn’t be such a long night after all.

8

Wahlman assessed the situation, tried to keep his rage at bay.

“You gentlemen should get back on your scooters and go home,” he said. “While you’re still able.”

One of the guys said something in German, most of it unpronounceable gibberish to Wahlman’s ear. There was one word that he was able to make out, but he didn’t know what it meant. Fonzie. Something like that. The word made all of the other scooter-riding rock stars laugh for some reason.

The guy who’d wanted to use the phone smiled, and then he nonchalantly stepped up to Wahlman’s motorcycle and stabbed the front tire with his knife. Or tried to. He couldn’t get the blade to poke through the rubber. Which was odd. The knife had a sharp point and appeared to be of high quality. It was almost as if the tire was solid rather than inflatable, or as if it had been fortified with some sort of super-duper material. The unexpected rebound caused the guy’s hand to slip, and he ended up slicing into his forefinger.

“Son of a bitch,” he said.

“So you speak English,” Wahlman said. “That’s good. I hope you’re able to understand what I’m going to say now, because it’s very important. I was in a coma for three days. Just woke up a while ago, and I’ve been having some anger management issues ever since. I don’t want to hurt you guys. I really don’t. But you’re making it hard. I’m only going to tell you one more time. Get back on your scooters and get lost.”

The guy who’d wanted to use the phone said something to his friends in German. But it wasn’t the right thing. They didn’t get on their scooters and ride away.

Friend One started walking toward Wahlman.

Friend Two and Friend Three followed.

Wahlman was outnumbered. And the guys had weapons. Knives. Long shiny blades. The only reasonable thing to do was run away. But that’s not what Wahlman did. Something kicked in. Like an instinct. He somehow knew that he could handle these guys. Somehow knew that it wouldn’t be that much of a problem.

He reared back and threw the apple juice bottle at Friend One’s head, threw it like a major league pitcher throws a fastball. Overhand, with follow-through. It was a good pitch. Right down the pike. The bottle didn’t shatter when it made impact. It slammed into the center of Friend One’s forehead with a hollow plunk , bounced off and went spinning through the air and almost hit the guy who’d wanted to use the phone.

Friend One staggered backward. Then he dropped to one knee. Then he fell over sideways and banged his head on the pavement, probably aggravating whatever kind of brain injury he’d already sustained. Wahlman figured he would live. Figured he would have a really bad headache when he woke up.

Friend Two and Friend Three moved forward, holding their knives out in front of them, turning sideways and edging in like combatants in a fencing match—beginners who didn’t really know what they were doing.

Wahlman glanced over at the trashcan. One of the items that had spilled out was a broken pallet. The kind you use to move things from one place to another with a forklift. Splintered planks, rusty nails.

Wahlman had gotten a guy out with a good pitch.

Now he needed to score some runs with a good hit.

He picked up one of the boards and took a homerun swing at Friend Two’s face, driving a two-inch nail through his left cheek, opening a gash as wide as a pinky finger between his cheekbone and his chin. It was a monstrous, fleshy looking thing, with a steady flow of bright red blood bubbling out of it, like some sort of ghastly soup that had just come to a boil. Friend Two dropped his knife and slapped his hand against the wound, shouted something in German and scurried over to his scooter and sped away. Friend Three followed, apparently deciding against the medical treatment he was likely to require otherwise.

Which only left the guy who’d wanted to use the phone.

“I cut my finger,” the guy said. “It’s deep. I’m going to need stitches.”

“You’re going to need more than that if your don’t—”

The guy reared back and threw his knife at Wahlman. Threw it with all his might. The blade could have thudded into Wahlman’s gut. Or his chest. Or his throat. But it didn’t. The guy had chosen to throw left-handed. Probably because his right hand was bleeding and painful at the moment. From the cut. He’d decided to give it a try with his non-dominant hand. Bad decision. His aim was off. The knife whistled past Wahlman’s left ear and skittered onto the asphalt about twenty feet behind him.

Wahlman tossed the slat from the pallet back toward the trashcan.

“Well?” he said, planting his feet and opening his palms invitingly.

“You’re bigger than I am,” the guy who’d wanted to use the phone said.

“But you have nicer hair,” Wahlman said. “What’s wrong? Chicken?”

The guy seemed puzzled. Probably not familiar with the idiom. Probably thinking about a live animal scratching around a barnyard. Or a dead one, fried and stuffed into a red and white cardboard bucket.

“What does a chicken have to do with it?” he said.

“It means you’re a cowardly piece of shit,” Wahlman said. “It means you’re going to climb onto your scooter over there and whimper all the way home with your tail between your legs. Which would actually be the smartest thing you could do right now. Maybe the smartest thing you’ve ever done in your life.”

“What about him?” the guy said, gesturing toward Friend One, who was still napping on the pavement.

“A good friend would make sure that he gets the attention he needs,” Wahlman said. “I’m pretty sure the phone around front is available now.”

The guy nodded. He climbed onto his scooter and rode away.

Wahlman looked around for the knife the guy had thrown at him, found it a few inches from a drainage grate. It had almost fallen in. It was a Boker, with stag grips. It was a very nice knife. Wahlman folded the blade into the handle and slid it into his pocket, and then he pushed his motorcycle out into the middle of the alley and mounted it and started the engine and headed for Diane’s place.

9

Stahler didn’t want to blow his cover. He didn’t want anyone to know that he was trying to locate Diane Givens in an effort to locate the missing ICU patient she’d been seen leaving the hospital with. Tracking down a patient who’d subsequently become a fugitive from justice just wasn’t something a neurosurgeon, or any doctor, would have done. Keeping that in mind, and drawing on some of the research he’d done for the mission, Stahler hurried out to the parking lot and started his motorcycle and raced to a certain payphone he’d used on previous occasions, the one outside a convenience store about two miles west of the base. He dropped a coin into the slot, punched in the number for the information desk at the hospital.

“Ramstein Air Base Medical Center. This is Sheryl speaking. May I help you?”

“This is Major Berringer,” Stahler said. “Executive officer of the Eighty-Sixth Security Forces Squadron. I need a phone number and a home address for a nurse named Diane Givens.”

“This is the second time tonight someone has called looking for her,” Sheryl said. “I hope she’s not in some kind of trouble.”

“I don’t need you to worry about what kind of trouble she might or might not be in. I just need you to give me the information I asked for.”