Ли Чайлд - The Sentinel

‘There’s one other thing,’ he said. ‘Something I want you to know. The food I eat at Fat Freddie’s. I always pay for it. Apart from that first time when they caught me by surprise. I do what I do for my wife. To keep her safe. Not to get something for nothing. As far as I’m concerned, maybe they rob my truck. Maybe they don’t. But I am not one of them.’

So, it wasn’t laziness. It was greed. Only not on Thomassino’s part. He was just a pawn. He could have made a stand, Reacher supposed. In which case the servers would already be back in their hands. But he couldn’t blame the guy for looking the other way while his work truck got looted. Not with his wife’s life on the line. And not over a bunch of junk that people had already thrown away. Reacher would have been happier if they were driving away with the servers stacked safely in the back of the minivan. But having another breadcrumb to follow was better than nothing.

The GPS predicted a twenty-two-minute drive to Fat Freddie’s, but that turned into forty-six minutes because Reacher asked Sands to make a detour via the truck stop. He wanted to get his hands on two more things. A bolt cutter. The biggest they had. And a padlock. The strongest he could find. Sands took the opportunity to top off the gas while Reacher was inside and she was waiting when he returned with the engine running and the next leg of the route highlighted on the screen. She drove faster than before. Buoyed up with the prospect of retrieving the servers, Reacher figured. She pushed the minivan hard, swaying and drifting through the curves until a robotic voice from the dashboard announced that their destination was on their left. They were still north of town. A few houses were dotted around amongst the fields and the trees but the concentrated development was still at least a mile away. There was a pre-war flatbed parked on either side of the driveway, like a rusty automotive equivalent of the statues Reacher had seen at the entrance to grand estates. The diner itself was set back from the road. It was a wide rectangular building made to look like it was constructed from logs. It had a green metal roof and a full-width porch and a neon sign mounted in the centre of the front wall. It spelled out Fat Freddie’s in flashing red letters and below the script an animated cartoon cowboy repeatedly lifted a colossal cheeseburger from his plate to his mouth.

The parking lot was out front. It was packed. The dinner rush was still in full swing. Sands threaded her way around the cars and trucks that had been left at the ends of rows and half up on the kerbs and looped around to the back of the building. There was another line of spaces marked Staff Only , again all taken. Beyond them was the outhouse, just where Thomassino had said it would be. It was low and square, built of pale brick, with a flat roof and a fenced-off area attached at the front to contain the garbage cans. Sands pulled up at the side, next to its door. Reacher climbed out. He was holding the bolt cutter low down, tight against his leg. He checked that no one was watching. Raised the tool. Closed its jaws over the top of the padlock. And squeezed. Hard. The metal loop severed. He swung the body of the lock aside, pulled it clear, and stowed its remains in his pocket. Sands jumped down and joined him. Rutherford scurried around from the far side of the van.

‘Ready?’ Reacher said.

Sands and Rutherford looked at each other and nodded.

Reacher pulled the door. Its hinges squealed. Daylight flooded in almost to the far wall. Inside, the floor was covered with heaps of equipment. A similar mix to the junk at the recycling plant. Only here it was neatly sorted into categories. Computers in one area. Monitors next to them. Then keyboards. And mice. And printers. And TVs. And DVD players. Presumably everything was serviceable, although Reacher didn’t know how to tell for sure. Everything was certainly ordered and organized. And there was only one thing that wasn’t electronic. A cabinet. It was six feet tall, standing on its own at the back of the space, half hidden in the shadows. Its solid right side was facing them, and the remains of its glass door was hanging open.

‘There it is!’ Rutherford pushed past Reacher and rushed forward, pulling out his phone as he went. He switched on its flashlight. Dodged around to the front of the cabinet. Looked inside. Then slumped sideways, ending up with his right shoulder propped against the wall.

‘What’s wrong?’ Sands said.

Rutherford couldn’t speak. He just gestured vaguely with his left hand.

Sands crossed the room, looked into the cabinet, and turned back to Reacher. He knew what she was going to say before she opened her mouth. ‘It’s empty. They’re gone.’

Reacher had a vision of the servers receding even further into the distance. And the new guy from Moscow heading in the opposite direction. On a plane. Growing ever closer.

‘Any chance they’re in one of these piles?’ Reacher said.

Rutherford struggled back upright and shook his head. ‘No. There’s only one lot of computers, and they’re all desktops. The servers aren’t here. We’re too late.’

‘That’s the wrong way to look at it,’ Reacher said. ‘We’re not too late. We’re a step closer. We know for sure they were here. Which means we’re on the right track.’

‘That’s true,’ Sands said. She took Rutherford’s arm and led him to the door. ‘Come on. We’re not giving up.’

‘What can we do?’ Rutherford said. ‘It’s a dead end.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Sands said. ‘The servers were here. Someone knows what happened to them.’

‘I guess,’ Rutherford said. ‘But who?’

‘We already know who,’ Sands said. ‘Bill Budnick. The man who threatened Thomassino. Who owns this place. We’ll talk to him. Make him tell us who he sold them to.’

‘Think he’s still here?’ Rutherford said. ‘What if he doesn’t work evenings?’

‘We’ll go inside,’ Sands said. ‘It should be easy to see if he’s around. And if he’s not, someone will know how to contact him.’

‘No need to go looking for him,’ Reacher said. ‘Give it five minutes. Maybe less. He’ll come to us.’

Reacher leaned into the van and slid the bolt cutter under his seat then turned and shoved the outhouse door closed.

‘Right,’ Sands said. ‘The half-hour thing.’

‘I don’t follow,’ Rutherford said.

‘Thomassino said he could show up here any time the place is open.’ Reacher slid the new lock into place and clicked it shut. ‘No need to call ahead. He just had to stay for half an hour.’

‘Meaning that whoever searches his truck is always here,’ Sands said. ‘He needs time to look through all the stuff. Figure out what’s valuable. Move it to the outhouse. And get clear before Thomassino comes back out. Thirty minutes is already tight. Anything else, like relying on another person to notice Thomassino had showed up, taking their call, driving here from wherever he’s based – that would add too much overhead.’

‘Maybe,’ Rutherford said. ‘But it doesn’t follow that Budnick does that himself.’

‘True.’ Reacher leaned against the wall. ‘But professional criminals generally want two things. As much reward as possible. And as little risk as possible. If Budnick doesn’t deal with the trucks himself he has to bring in someone else to do it. At least one person. Maybe two, to cover all the week’s shifts. These people would need to be paid. Which dilutes the profit. They might drop a dime on him. And they would have to keep sneaking away from the kitchen or the dishwasher or whatever their cover job is, which would be suspicious. Which would increase the risk.’ He pointed to a fire door at the back of the main building. ‘A dime gets a dollar that the next guy who comes out of there is Budnick. Meantime, Rusty, you better get back in the van. Keep your head down. You’re local. You’ve been in the paper. He might recognize you.’