Jude Hardin - The Reacher Code - Timestream 1

“I thought you were in trouble at the base,” Diane said. “How are you going to—”

“I’m going to ride in your trunk.”

“What? You want me to smuggle a guy with a machinegun into a United States Air Force base in the trunk of my car? Are you out of your mind?”

“There’s no other way,” Wahlman said. “Please. We need to hurry.”

Diane’s face had gone pale, even the side that had been a little red. She raked her fingers through her hair, started pacing back and forth, looked like she might be getting ready to blow a gasket.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But you’re going to have to tell me what’s going on. Otherwise, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“What’s going on is classified,” Wahlman said. “And you wouldn’t believe it anyway. If anything happens, just tell them that I forced you to drive me onto the base. That way you’ll be in the clear.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” Diane asked. “Forcing me?”

“That’s not the way I want it to be,” Wahlman said. “But if you insist.”

He aimed the barrel of the rifle at her chest.

“Looks like I don’t have much of a choice,” she said. “Mind if I put some shoes on real quick?”

“Go ahead.”

Wahlman followed her into the bedroom. He wanted to make sure she didn’t grab some kind of weapon while she was in there.

“I need to put some underwear on too,” she said. “I need some privacy.”

“Just get the shoes. Hurry up. We need to go.”

Diane slipped her feet into a pair of topsiders that had been placed neatly at the edge of the bed. She grabbed her keys and her purse and her employee badge from the top of the dresser, brushed past Wahlman on her way back to the living room.

“We can go out the back,” she said.

Wahlman followed her through the kitchen and out the back door. Down the steps and past a little courtyard to the carport. Diane’s Ford was parked between a Volkswagon Beetle and an old Mercedes station wagon that you could have hauled a football team in.

“Open the trunk,” Wahlman said.

Diane opened the trunk. There was a spare tire in there, along with the missing hubcap and side mirror and a cardboard box about the size of an ice chest.

“Some clothes I’m donating,” Diane said, gesturing toward the box. “I keep forgetting to—”

“Get it all out of there.”

Diane set the mirror and the hubcap on top of the box, and then she lifted the box out of the trunk and carried it to the courtyard. While she was doing that, Wahlman pulled the spare tire out and propped it against the rear bumper. When Diane returned, he instructed her to roll it over and leave it with the other stuff. She was out of breath when she finished and her hands were dirty from handling the tire.

“It’s all yours,” she said, gesturing toward the empty trunk.

“I’ll ride up front with you for now,” Wahlman said. “You can pull off onto a side street when we get close to the base. I’ll get in the trunk, and you can let me out in the hospital parking lot. Then you can go home.”

“Unless I get arrested.”

“I’m forcing you to do this, remember? That’s all you need to say.”

“Whatever. Are we ready to go now?”

“I have one question first,” Wahlman said.

“Okay.”

“What does the word Fonzie mean?”

Diane laughed.

“You’re joking, right? Have you been living under a rock for the past decade?”

“Something like that.”

“ Aayyy ,” Diane said, drawing the nonsensical syllable out gutturally, closing her fists and making an exaggerated gesture with her thumbs. “You know, The Fonz. He’s a character on a television show.”

“A television show?”

“Come to think of it, you’re kind of wearing the same clothes he wears. The black leather jacket and the jeans and the white t-shirt. And your motorcycle even looks kind of like his.”

“That explains it,” Wahlman said.

“Explains what?”

“Never mind. Let’s get out of here.”

12

Stahler second-geared it past Diane’s apartment building, rode around the block and parked his motorcycle on the next street over. He selected the semi-automatic pistol from the weapons compartment under the seat, screwed on the sound suppressor and headed off on foot, cutting through some yards and climbing some fences and ending up in the alley behind Diane’s building. Someone had left a pile of junk in the little courtyard that led to the back doors. An old tire and a cardboard box and some other things. Otherwise, the property appeared to be well kept.

Stahler looked at his watch.

14:27…

14:26…

14:25…

He had enough time to do what he needed to do, but he didn’t have a lot to spare. Still thinking it was a shame that this was even necessary, he took a deep breath and walked to the front of the building, lurking through the shadows, staying low, trying to remain hidden from any night owls who might happen to look out any windows.

Wahlman’s motorcycle was parked on the street.

And there was a light on in Diane’s apartment.

Stahler could have walked up to the stoop and kicked the door in, but that would have made a lot of noise. People would wake up and wonder what all the racket was about. The nearest neighbors might even hear the muffled gunshots. One or more of them might call the police.

Or something worse than that might happen.

Someone might decide to open a drawer on a nightstand and grab a revolver or reach under a bed and grab a shotgun—or a baseball bat or a hockey stick or something—and step outside and try to play hero. Stahler didn’t have time for any of that, and he didn’t want to kill anyone that he didn’t have to.

12:43…

12:42…

12:41…

He decided that he would simply step up to the door and ring the doorbell.

But first he needed a different set of clothes.

He adjusted the settings on his watch. The surgical scrubs he was wearing suddenly changed to formalwear—a black tuxedo with a white shirt and a cummerbund and a bowtie.

I was the best man at my friend’s wedding a while ago and my car broke down and I was wondering if I could use your phone?

Who could say no to a guy in a tux, even at one o’clock in the morning?

Once inside the apartment, Stahler would drill a single round into Wahlman’s forehead, and two more into his chest, and then he would turn and give Diane the same treatment. He didn’t want to kill either of them, but he had no choice. He’d been ordered to assassinate Wahlman, and he couldn’t afford to leave any loose ends. No telling what kinds of secrets had been passed along. It was possible that Wahlman hadn’t told Diane anything, but it was also possible that he’d told her everything. There was no way to know for sure. Which meant that all of the bases needed to be covered. Rock Wahlman and Diane Givens were a package deal now, and there was nothing Stahler could do to change that.

He stepped up to the door and rang the bell.

Waited.

Knocked.

Waited some more.

He tried the knob. The door hadn’t been locked. He eased it open and stepped inside.

Closed it gently.

There was a couch on one side of the living room and a coffee table and a small television on a stand. The television had been left on. Cowboys. Speaking German. Which was somehow amusing and disconcerting at the same time. Several magazines had been stacked neatly on the coffee table, alongside a dinner plate with a partially-eaten sandwich on it and some milk in a glass and an ashtray that needed to be emptied. Stahler stepped through the carpeted space, took a quick glance into the kitchen, checked the bedroom and the bathroom and the closets.