Ли Чайлд - The Sentinel

Rutherford shook his head. ‘The insurance company is paying. They’ve got a guy negotiating, trying to get the price down. Maybe the guy you rode in with. Even if he can’t get them to budge and they have to pay full sticker, I don’t see a major corporation going after a pound of my flesh.’

The friendly waitress collected their plates.

Reacher took a sip of coffee. ‘You said you were working on some kind of new system. To detect these attacks and stop them. It was defeated, I get that. But is there any way it could still help? Think about someone wearing body armour. It’s supposed to be impermeable but he gets shot by some new kind of round that is able to penetrate. It sucks for him because he’s dead but the forensic guys can still learn a lot. The calibre of the bullet. Was it jacketed? What kind of material? And so on. Then some deductions can be made.’

‘I was thinking the same way. That was exactly what I was hoping for. I checked. Multiple times. No luck. And I sent a copy to my ex-FBI friend. She’s working on it too. She has more resources but it doesn’t look hopeful.’

Reacher put some money down and slid out of the booth. The friendly waitress slipped her phone into her apron pocket and approached. She asked to talk to Rutherford for a moment. There was something she needed help with. Her voice said it had to do with a computer. Her body language said it had to do with something else. Reacher smiled. He found people respond to crises in two ways. Some get to work fixing the problem. Others, proving the problem wasn’t their fault. Reacher liked the first kind. Rutherford seemed like the first kind. It was nice to see someone not dumping on him for a change.

Reacher stepped outside. He moved to the side of the window to give Rutherford some privacy. A man stepped out of the shadows. He was around six feet even. He had sunken eyes set into a pale, unshaven face. Shabby work boots with torn leather exposing their steel toecaps. Grubby jeans. A tight black T-shirt under an olive jacket. Army surplus, Reacher thought. Probably Italian, by the shade of green.

The man’s hand slid into his jacket pocket and directed something hard and cylindrical towards Reacher’s chest. ‘Move it,’ he said. ‘Into the alley.’

Speranski was back in his living room, reading his newspaper, when the secure phone rang again.

‘Good news,’ the voice at the other end of the line said. ‘The Center agreed. The team was sent back out. And right away they re-established contact.’

‘Excellent,’ Speranski said. ‘Where?’

‘Going into a diner. Opposite Rutherford’s building.’

‘Can they take him there? What’s the plan?’

‘Not inside. They’re going to wait. Take them when they come out.’

‘Them?’

‘Correct. Rutherford and the drifter.’

Speranski was silent for a moment. Had his contact in the police department lied to him? Or failed to carry out an adequate interview?

‘They showed up together,’ the voice said. ‘From the direction of the courthouse. Looked like they were getting to know one another, according to the report. Probably got released at the same time and started talking.’

That sounded like an assumption, Speranski thought. He didn’t like assumptions. Maybe it was time to test his contact’s loyalty. Or his competence. Or both. Yes. He should definitely do that. But in due course. The current situation had to be resolved first. If it wasn’t, nothing else would matter anyway.

‘So they’ll take them on the street?’ Speranski said.

‘In an alley,’ the voice said. ‘There’s one right next to the diner, I’m told. You probably know it. They’ll lure them in. Block the entrance with the Suburban to avoid any witnesses. And hit them with the tasers.’

Speranski did know the alley. He pictured the scene. It was suitable, he decided. The plan was simple, but sometimes simple is best. And if they got the drifter as well as Rutherford, that could be advantageous. Because he couldn’t touch Rutherford. He couldn’t afford to leave any marks. Nothing that might raise suspicion at an autopsy. He had to rely on scaring him. But he could do whatever he wanted to the drifter. Which would no doubt help to loosen Rutherford’s tongue.

And it would be fun.

He would have to summon his housekeeper. Tell her to prepare the generator room. To clean the instruments, at least. The walls and floor could probably wait.

Reacher looked at the man facing him with the bulging jacket and said nothing.

‘Into the alley.’ The guy pointed with his free hand. ‘Move. Backward. Now. I’ll tell you when to turn.’

‘What’s the rush?’ Reacher said. ‘This is a serious decision. I’m going to need more information. Let’s start with you explaining why I’d want to go into the alley.’

‘Because I’m telling you to.’

Reacher shook his head. ‘See, that is not a compelling reason. In fact, it’s the opposite. A moment ago, before you opened your mouth, there was a possibility I’d wind up in there. Based purely on random chance. It wouldn’t have been very likely. If a top mathematician happened to be passing by she could have calculated the probability, tiny though it might have been. Now, on the other hand, even if you invented a whole new branch of mathematics you wouldn’t be able to come up with a number small enough.’

The man fidgeted from foot to foot. ‘OK. Do the math on this. Go into the alley, right now, or I’ll shoot you.’

‘Again, not compelling. If you want me in the alley you must have a reason which doesn’t involve shooting me on the street or you would have done that already. And on top of that, in order to shoot me you’d need to have a gun.’

‘I have a gun.’ The guy flapped his jacket. ‘I’m pointing it right at you.’

‘That’s a gun in your pocket? Oh. OK. I didn’t realize. What kind is it?’

The guy’s mouth opened but no words came out.

‘Pistol or revolver?’

The guy didn’t answer.

‘Thirty-eight or forty-five?’

The guy stayed silent.

‘Take it out. Show it to me. You might learn something.’

The guy didn’t move.

‘You don’t have a gun. It’s OK. You can admit it. But you do realize that the game’s over? Because here’s your real problem. You already know you can’t make me do anything on your own. That’s why you pretended to be armed. Only you’re not armed. So here’s my decision. I’m going to decline your invitation. And give you a choice. Tell me who sent you and why they want me in the alley, and I’ll let you walk away. Otherwise, do you have a phone?’

The guy didn’t answer.

‘If you do have one, and you choose not to tell me what I want to know, you should take it out. Call 911. Right away. Because I’m going to throw you through that window. You don’t want to run the risk of bleeding out on the floor.’

‘No one’s calling 911.’ It was a man’s voice, from somewhere behind Reacher’s back.

‘And if anyone’s getting thrown through a window, it’ll be you.’ A second voice.

Reacher turned and saw two men strutting out of the alley. Both were also around six feet tall. Both were bald with full bushy beards. They were wearing greasy coveralls and were broad with thick ape-like arms curving out in front of them. Reacher pictured them in a truck workshop carrying giant tyres around all day.

‘You see, this is why I don’t like alleys,’ Reacher said. ‘They attract rats. Are there any more in there? If so, they’d better slink out now. Because I don’t know what you have in mind but whatever it is, two tubs of lard aren’t going to get it done.’

‘There are three of us.’ The original guy now had his hand out of his pocket and he’d bunched it into a fist.