Ли Чайлд - The Sentinel

‘I’d listen to my gut. If I had any doubt, I’d walk away.’

‘Even if that meant leaving a friend in danger?’

‘OK, Sarah. Enough beating around the bush. What’s your real question?’

‘Well, when I was in the shower just now I started thinking, what if I wanted to get something from Rusty? Something critically important. And I wanted to do it without anyone realizing. I wouldn’t steal it, because he’d notice and report it missing. I wouldn’t try to buy it from him or trick him into handing it over, because he might see through me. He might play along and then report the attempt. Or run. I could kidnap him, of course, and force him to give it to me. But then I’d have to kill him to preserve the secret. So maybe I’d do this instead. I’d stage a kidnapping attempt. Make it look very professional. Very convincing. The kind of thing that would certainly have succeeded if someone hadn’t intervened. Someone with all the right skills and experience who just happened to be walking by. Someone who would instantly gain Rusty’s trust, and then offer to stick around and help him.’

‘That someone being me?’ Reacher said.

‘I’m not trying to be an asshole here. But you have to admit it’s a possibility.’

‘It’s absolutely a possibility. It wouldn’t be the first time something like it happened.’

‘Is that supposed to make me feel better? Because it’s not just the kidnap attempt that could be fishy. Every other time you’ve had contact with whoever we’re up against you’ve been on your own. A series of coincidences? Or clandestine meetings?’

Reacher smiled and looked away.

‘What?’ Sands said. ‘Is this funny to you?’

‘No. It’s just this town. There must be something in the water. First I get mistaken for an insurance guy. And now you think, what? Follow it through. If I’m working with these kidnappers, I must be some kind of mercenary. Someone good, because this operation wasn’t thrown together on a budget. Therefore someone expensive. So I must be secretly rich. What’s your theory? This whole image is a sham? I really live in some Manhattan mansion with closets full of silk suits and a garage crammed with Ferraris?’

‘Is that any less likely than a retired major being homeless?’

‘I’m not homeless.’

‘So that’s one lie you told.’

‘When?’

‘You told Rusty you don’t own a house. You just drift around. A night here. Two nights there. No fixed abode.’

‘That’s true.’

‘So you are homeless.’

‘No. My situation is not the same at all. It’s like the difference between being alone and being lonely. Two separate, distinct things.’

‘OK, then. Back up. Say you have earned a fortune as a mercenary. It doesn’t follow that you spent the money on a house and clothes and cars. That’s faulty reasoning. You might not have spent the money at all. You could have stashed it all in a bank in the Cayman Islands. Or hidden it inside a hollow tree. Or given it to a cat shelter.’

‘True. I could have. But I didn’t.’

‘Can you back that up?’

‘How? I can’t prove a negative. No one can.’

Sands slumped back on the couch.

‘Try this,’ Reacher said. ‘Flip it around. I have the means and the opportunity, sure. But what’s my motive?’

‘Money,’ Sands said.

‘I’m not interested in money. I have enough already. Why would I want more?’

‘Have you met the human race?’

‘You’re on the wrong track, Sarah. The point is, I do have a motive. To keep Rusty out of danger. You’re equally capable of that. So why don’t you take over? If you move him somewhere safe, today, I’ll walk away. I’ll never come near him again.’

‘Or with us out of the way you’ll go straight to the depot and lean on Thomassino.’

‘Look, if you really don’t trust me, talk to your friends at the Bureau. Have them run my background.’

‘I already did. Five minutes after I met you. They didn’t find anything. But what does that mean? You’re telling the truth? Or you’re good at covering your tracks?’

‘I guess it boils down to this,’ Reacher said. ‘I could be helping Rusty. I could be setting him up. Only time will tell. So right now it just depends on what you believe. And you obviously don’t believe I’m in league with the devil.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘You’re a smart woman. That’s clear. So if you really thought I was a hired killer you wouldn’t say so to my face. You’d drug my coffee and slip away while you had the chance. Or shoot me before I could hurt your friend.’

‘That’s an interesting theory. Which begs another question. Who just made your coffee?’

Reacher picked up his mug. It was a decent size. Maybe eight fluid ounces. It had started out full. Now only a quarter was left. Was six ounces enough for an effective dose of tranquillizer? For a man his size? He didn’t feel dizzy. Or nauseous. Or tired. He sniffed the remaining liquid. There was no unusual odour. It had tasted fine. But then he wasn’t the world’s greatest connoisseur when it came to flavour. He was mainly a fan of strength.

‘Here,’ Sands said. ‘Pass it to me.’

Reacher put the mug back on the table and slid it across. Sands picked it up and took a mouthful.

‘I was joking about the coffee,’ she said, then revealed why her robe was gaping a little that day. There was something in the pocket. Something heavy. Sands reached inside and pulled it out. It was a gun. A Colt Government Model .380. Small. Light. Reliable. She flicked the safety down with her right thumb. ‘I’m not joking about this. And remember, you may be bigger. But I’m faster. So look me in the eye and tell me you’re on the level.’

‘I’m on the level.’

Sands rested the Colt on her lap. The tips of her fingers were touching its grip.

‘So,’ Reacher said after a long minute had ticked past. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘What choice do I have? Do what you said. Go with my gut.’ Sands flicked the safety up and slipped the gun back into her pocket. ‘And pray you don’t make me regret it.’

Rutherford emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist and scurried to his sleeping area behind the wooden divider. Sands got up and followed around to hers. Reacher stayed on the couch. He could hear the others rustling and rubbing and fidgeting, then two hairdryers started up almost simultaneously. They ran for almost the same length of time. There was more rustling. Then Sands reappeared. She was wearing loose linen pants and a pale blue T-shirt. She was using her sunglasses to hold back her hair, and her purse was slung over her left shoulder. Positioned to ensure easy access for her right hand, Reacher thought. No doubt with the Colt at the top. Maybe in a special built-in holster, so that it wouldn’t get buried or snagged.

Rutherford rejoined them. He had on a fresh pair of chinos and a clean polo shirt. Another sombre colour. Another logo. To show he still meant business.

Sands left the apartment first, alone, to avoid being seen with the others. She retrieved the minivan, rendezvoused with Rutherford and Reacher in the alley with the dumpsters, and entered the waste company’s address into the GPS. The machine predicted a ten-minute drive, which turned out to be accurate. It led them to a compound at the end of a long straight road with squat, shabby warehouses on either side. The site was surrounded by a chain-link fence made of heavy-gauge steel. Eight feet tall. The only entrance they could see was blocked by a red and white striped barrier. Sands drove up close and stopped next to a tall metal post. There were two keypads attached to it. One high, for trucks. One low, for cars. Sands wound down her window and hit the intercom button on the lower one. There was no response. She hit it again. The box didn’t make a sound. Not even a buzz of static. She stretched up to give the other one a try but stopped before her finger made contact. There was movement from inside the compound. A shiny black pickup was approaching. It looked like a regular F150. No light bar on the roof. No security company logo on the door. Sands took her fake federal ID out of her purse, just in case.