Ли Чайлд - Without Fail

“Did you see the shooter?”

Neagley shook her head. “I was facing front. Did you?”

“A glimpse,” Reacher said. “One man.”

“Hell of a thing,” Neagley said.

Reacher nodded and wiped his palms on his pants, front and back. Then he ran his hands through his hair. “If I wrote insurance I wouldn’t touch any of Joe’s old friends. I’d tell them to commit suicide and save the bad guys the trouble.”

“So what now?”

He shrugged. “You should go home to Chicago.”

“You?”

“I’m going to stick around.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“The FBI will get them.”

“Not if I get them first,” Reacher said.

“You made up your mind?”

“I held her while she bled to death. I’m not going to just walk away.”

“Then I’ll stick around, too.”

“I’ll be OK on my own.”

“I know you will,” Neagley said. “But you’ll be better with me.”

Reacher nodded.

“What did she say to you?” Neagley asked.

“She said nothing to me. She thought I was Joe.”

He saw Stuyvesant picking his way back through the yard. Hauled himself upright with both hands against the wall.

“Armstrong will see us,” Stuyvesant said. “You want to change first?”

Reacher looked down at his clothes. They were soaked with Froelich’s blood in big irregular patches. It was cooling and drying and blackening.

“No,” he said. “I don’t want to change first.”

They used the Suburban that Stuyvesant had arrived in. It was still Thanksgiving Day and D.C. was still quiet. They saw almost no civilian activity. Almost everything out and moving was law enforcement. There was a double ring of hasty police roadblocks on every thoroughfare around the White House. Stuyvesant kept his strobes going and was waved through all of them. He showed his ID at the White House vehicle gate and parked outside the West Wing. A Marine sentry passed them to a Secret Service escort who led them inside. They went down two flights of stairs to a vaulted basement built from brick. There were plant rooms down there. Other rooms with steel doors. The escort stopped in front of one of them and knocked hard.

The door was opened from the inside by one of Armstrong’s personal detail. He was still wearing his Kevlar vest. Still wearing his sunglasses, although the room had no windows. Just bright fluorescent tubes on the ceiling. Armstrong and his wife were sitting together on chairs at a table in the center of the room. The other two agents were leaning against the walls. The room was silent. Armstrong’s wife had been crying. That was clear. Armstrong himself had a smudge of Froelich’s blood on the side of his face. He looked deflated. Like this whole White House thing was no longer fun.

“What’s the situation?” he asked.

“Two casualties,” Stuyvesant said quietly. “The sentry on the warehouse roof, and M.E. herself. They both died at the scene.”

Armstrong’s wife turned away like she had been slapped.

“Did you get the people who did it?” Armstrong asked.

“The FBI is leading the hunt,” Stuyvesant said. “Just a matter of time.”

“I want to help,” Armstrong said.

“You’re going to help,” Reacher said.

Armstrong nodded. “What can I do?”

“You can issue a formal statement,” Reacher said. “Immediately. In time for the networks to get it on the evening news.”

“Saying what?”

“Saying you’re canceling your holiday weekend in North Dakota out of respect for the two dead agents. Saying you’re holing up in your Georgetown house and going absolutely nowhere at all before you attend a memorial service for your lead agent in her hometown in Wyoming on Sunday morning. Find out the name of the town and mention it loud and clear.”

Armstrong nodded again.

“OK,” he said. “I could do that, I guess. But why?”

“Because they won’t try again here in D.C. Not against the security you’re going to have at your house. So they’ll go home and wait. Which gives me until Sunday to find out where they live.”

“You? Won’t the FBI find them today?”

“If they do, that’s great. I can move on.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then I’ll find them myself.”

“And if you fail?”

“I don’t plan to fail. But if I do, then they’ll show up in Wyoming to try again. At Froelich’s service. Whereupon I’ll be waiting for them.”

“No,” Stuyvesant said. “I can’t allow it. Are you crazy? We can’t secure a situation out West on seventy-two hours’ notice. And I can’t use a protectee as bait .”

“He doesn’t have to actually go,” Reacher said. “There probably won’t even be a service. He just has to say it.”

Armstrong shook his head. “I can’t say it if there isn’t going to be a service. And if there is a service, I can’t say it and not show up.”

“If you want to help, that’s what you’ve got to do.”

Armstrong said nothing.

They left the Armstrongs in the West Wing basement and were escorted back to the Suburban. The sun was still shining and the sky was still blue. The buildings were still white and golden. It was still a glorious day.

“Take us back to the motel,” Reacher said. “I want to get a shower. Then I want to meet with Bannon.”

“Why?” Stuyvesant asked.

“Because I’m a witness,” Reacher said. “I saw the shooter. On the roof. Just a glimpse of his back as he moved away from the edge.”

“You got a description?”

“Not really,” Reacher said. “It was only a glimpse. I couldn’t describe him. But there was something about how he moved. I’ve seen him before.”

He peeled off his clothes. They were stiff and cold and clammy with blood. He dropped them on the closet floor and stepped into the bathroom. Set the shower going. The tray under his feet ran red and then pink and then clear. He washed his hair twice and shaved carefully. Dressed in another of Joe’s shirts and another of his suits and chose the regimental tie that Froelich had bought, as a tribute. Then he went back out to the lobby.

Neagley was waiting for him there. She had changed, too. She was wearing a black suit. It was the old Army way. If in doubt, go formal . She had a cup of coffee ready for him. She was talking to the U.S. marshals. They were a new crew. The day shift, he guessed.

“Stuyvesant’s coming back,” she told him. “Then we go meet with Bannon.”

He nodded. The marshals were quiet around him. Almost respectful. Toward him or because of Froelich, he didn’t know.

“Tough break,” one of them said.

Reacher looked away.

“I guess it was,” he replied.

Then he looked back.

“But hey, shit happens,” he said.

Neagley smiled, briefly. It was the old Army way. If in doubt, be flippant .

Stuyvesant showed up an hour later and drove them to the Hoover Building. The balance of power had changed. Killing federal agents was a federal crime, so now the FBI was firmly in charge. Now it was a straightforward manhunt. Bannon met them in the main lobby and took them up in an elevator to their conference room. It was better than Treasury’s. It was paneled in wood and had windows. There was a long table with clusters of glasses and bottles of mineral water. Bannon was conspicuously democratic and avoided the head of the table. He just dumped himself down in one of the side chairs. Neagley put herself on the same side, two places away. Reacher sat down opposite her. Stuyvesant chose a place three away from Reacher and poured himself a glass of water.

“Quite a day,” Bannon said in the silence. “My agency extends its deepest sympathies to your agency.”