Ли Чайлд - The Sentinel

The Suburban was still parked in the same spot when Reacher stepped out of the alley. He waved with both arms to attract the driver’s attention then gestured for the guy to join him. The driver shook his head and indicated that Reacher should come to him. Reacher threw up his hands as if exasperated and hurried along the sidewalk until he was level with the passenger door. The window whirred down and Reacher could see that the driver was holding a gun. Another Beretta. Presumably also well maintained. Presumably also loaded. He had it in his left hand, low down in his lap, pointing sideways. Not an ideal firing position. But that was compensated for by the size of the target he had to aim at. Reacher’s chest.

‘Come quick,’ Reacher said, ignoring the gun. ‘To the alley. Your friend needs help. Bring the car.’

‘What are you talking about?’ the driver said.

‘I waited for you at the coffee shop and when you didn’t show I came back to look for you. I figured I’d cut through the alley to save time and I found your friend. He was on the ground. In bad shape. He was bleeding. He had this big cut on his forehead. He was unconscious. Breathing, but only just. He must have gotten mugged. He had no wallet. No phone.’

‘Did you call 911?’

‘I couldn’t. I don’t have a phone. That’s why I came to get you. And I figured that with this whole computer situation going on it would be quicker for you to drive him to the hospital anyway.’

The driver paused, then put down the gun. ‘All right. Show me.’

‘Come on. Follow me. Pull into the alley. Then you’ll see him.’ Reacher set off at a fast jog, and after a second he heard an engine fire up behind him. Tyres squealed and a moment later the Suburban shot past him. It continued to accelerate then darted into the mouth of the alley without signalling. Reacher caught up and squeezed along the passenger side. The driver climbed out, his gun in his hand, and joined Reacher at the front of the vehicle.

‘Where is he?’ the driver said. ‘I don’t see him.’

‘I forgot,’ Reacher said. ‘I put him in the dumpster. The far one. To keep him safe. I didn’t know if you’d still be waiting, or how long it would take to find you.’

The driver raised his gun to Reacher’s chest. ‘You forgot?’

‘What?’ Reacher said. ‘You never forgot anything?’

‘All right.’ The driver raised the gun to Reacher’s head. ‘Back up against the wall. Keep your hands where I can see them.’ He waited for Reacher to comply then moved forward to the dumpster. ‘Don’t move.’ He lifted the lid with his free hand and took a glance inside. Reacher waited a moment for him to register the state his buddy was in, then strode forward and pulled the gun from his waistband. He switched it around so he was holding it by the barrel and swung it in a fast sideways arc. The butt smashed into the driver’s elbow.

The driver dropped his own gun and the lid of the dumpster and slumped down on one knee. Reacher switched the gun to his left hand, wrapped his right hand around the side of the guy’s head and slammed it against the dumpster. Then he grabbed the front of his shirt, half lifted him, and dropped him down in a sitting position with his back against the metal. His body was as slack as a rag doll. Reacher waited a moment to make sure he was conscious, then rammed his gun into the guy’s mouth.

‘I’m going to ask you a question,’ Reacher said. ‘I’ll give you five seconds to think about it then I’ll remove the gun. If you give me the correct answer I’ll let you fish your buddy out of the trash and drive away. Give me anything other than the correct answer and I’ll put the gun back in your mouth and blow the back of your skull clean off. Are we clear?’

The driver’s eyes widened and he did his best to nod his head.

‘What does Rutherford have that you want?’ Reacher raised his thumb and each finger on his right hand in turn at one second intervals, then pulled out the gun.

‘Go ahead.’ The driver raised his chin. ‘Shoot me. Don’t waste any more time. There’s nothing you can say or do that’ll make me tell you what it is.’

‘You’d rather give up your life than one little piece of information?’ Reacher said. ‘That seems like a poor choice.’

‘It’s not just my life. I have a wife. A brother. I know what would happen to them. Come on.’ He opened his mouth, leaned forward, and gripped the muzzle with his teeth. ‘Do it.’

Reacher pulled the gun away and clubbed the driver on the side of the head with his right hand, knocking him out cold. He retrieved the dropped gun, checked it, tucked both weapons into his waistband, then started to go through the guy’s pockets. The contents proved no more satisfying than the passenger’s. He had no credit cards. Nothing with a name or an address. No spare ammunition. His phone had been used more recently, but it contained no names or personal information. Reacher took the cash as before, duct-taped his ankles, wrists and mouth, and dropped him in the other dumpster. Then he turned to the Suburban. He checked the glovebox. The sun visors. The door pockets. Under the seats. Under the floor mats. In the trunk. Around the spare and the jack and the little wallet of tools. Under the hood. In the wheel arches. And found nothing. Not even a loose dime or a discarded candy wrapper. Whoever these guys were, they were fastidious. That was for damn sure.

Reacher closed the hood and the tailgate and all the doors apart from the driver’s. He was tempted to climb in. Take the vehicle. Partly because it could be useful. And partly to deprive the enemy of a valuable asset. But he had seen one of the same crew stick a tracking device on Rutherford’s Beetle. That meant there was a risk they’d use the same technology on their own vehicles. So he made sure the key was in the ignition and left the Suburban to take its chances.

Someone had left a stack of cards advertising a pizza delivery service on the reception counter but otherwise the lobby of Rutherford’s building seemed undisturbed when Reacher returned. He was starting to feel hungry again so he tucked a card into his back pocket then approached the closet door. He braced himself in case the doorman had used the time to think. To see through the ruse. Then he worked the lock. And found the guy sitting on the floor with his knees up near his shoulders. He blinked his tiny eyes against the sudden light then recognized Reacher and tried to speak, but his voice was unintelligible through the shiny tape.

‘Good news,’ Reacher said. He grabbed the doorman’s hands and heaved him to his feet, then took out his smaller knife and started to cut him free. ‘False alarm. There’s no threat against Mr Rutherford. Not today. He’s perfectly safe. For now. Although he’s not feeling very well. He just called. He’s postponed his trip again. He’s going to stay in his apartment for a few days until he’s feeling better. He doesn’t want any visitors, or any other interruptions at all. I’m just going to go up and check if he needs anything, then I’ll be heading back to Nashville. It was a pleasure meeting you. Keep up the good work.’

Reacher figured that if Rutherford’s neighbour could spend half the year away on cruises he must be an older guy. Retired. With plenty of time on his hands. And many years of accumulating junk behind him. Reacher pictured an apartment crammed with chintzy furniture. Flowery curtains. Pictures of children. Probably grandchildren. But when Rutherford opened the door and stepped back Reacher saw a large, almost empty space. All the dividing walls had been removed. The exterior walls had been painted bright white. The floor was covered with pale grey concrete which was sealed and polished to match the kitchen countertops. Aluminium blinds, angled to allow the afternoon sun to flood in, covered the windows. The coffee table had a lozenge-shaped glass top with a curved wood support rather than regular legs. The rest of the furniture was all chrome and black leather. Reacher had seen pictures of things like it in a magazine about mid-century designers. There were polished walnut units with doors set into them separating the far third of the room. Something that looked like a giant metal egg made out of riveted panels set on a black wood tripod. And a set of blond wood shelves. Each one was an apparently random length, but Reacher figured they were probably carefully calculated to create some kind of effect. They seemed to be floating near the wall rather than being attached with brackets or supports, and they held a sparse selection of random objects. The kind that were no doubt pronounced objays by the people who sold them.