Ли Чайлд - The Sentinel

A door opened at the back of the clubhouse area. Maybe from a storeroom. Maybe from a bathroom. Zach stepped out. He was still wearing his bandana and shades.

‘You don’t?’ Reacher said. ‘Here he is now. Want me to introduce you?’

‘Funny guy,’ Zach said. He made his way to the threshold. ‘What do you want?’

‘To talk.’

‘About what?’

‘Henry Klostermann.’

‘Don’t know any Henry Klostermann, do we, boys?’

The others shook their heads and grunted.

‘Sure you do,’ Reacher said. ‘He has some business up for grabs. There was a misunderstanding. You wound up on the back foot, I get that. But Mr Klostermann doesn’t like quitters. You should give it another shot. And here’s the good news. I can help you. If you help me first.’

‘Bullshit,’ Zach said.

‘No. It’s the truth. But I guess if you don’t want to work with Mr Klostermann …’

‘If you know Mr Klostermann you must be in the Brotherhood. So why haven’t I seen you at any meetings?’

Reacher shrugged. ‘I spend a lot of time on the road.’

‘So you are in the Brotherhood? Prove it.’

‘I don’t need to prove anything. I’m Mr Klostermann’s business associate. We just closed a deal today, as a matter of fact. At his house. I’ve been there more than once. That’s where I saw you. I overheard what happened. Just confirm a couple of details for me, and I can get you back on the books in no time.’

‘You can take your business deals and stick them in your ass. The Brotherhood. Are you a member? Yes or no? Because we all are. Show him, boys.’

As one, the guys with T-shirts lifted them. The guys with vests opened them. And the guy with the coveralls undid the tunic buttons. They all had the same tattoo. On the left side of their chests. A bald eagle. Holding arrows in both talons, not just one. And across the centre of the bird’s body, in place of the Stars and Stripes, there was a round shield containing a black swastika on a red background.

The blurry image that had been in Reacher’s head since talking to Wallwork snapped into focus. The white flowers in Klostermann’s living room. They were edelweiss. Adolf Hitler’s favourite. Which told him what Klostermann was hiding. His father had arrived from Germany in 1946. With at least one valuable painting to use as collateral to start a new life. He was a war criminal. A Nazi. And Henry was carrying on the family business.

‘Well, that simplifies things,’ Reacher said. ‘I had thought there were two ways this could go. Now I see there’s only one.’

‘Lift your shirt,’ Zach said. ‘Show us yours.’

Reacher didn’t move.

Zach closed his vest and turned to his buddies. ‘He must be Antifa. Mr Klostermann said they’d be on our trail. That’s why he needed our help.’

‘Help with what?’ Reacher said. ‘Tying his shoelaces? I guess if you all worked together you might be able to do it. If you had a couple of days. And a dark room to lie down in afterwards.’

The six guys stepped forward as one, drawn by the insult.

‘Fellers, slow down,’ Reacher said. ‘You’re failing to use the resources available to you. Look around. There are wrenches. Hammers. Tyre irons. All kinds of sharp heavy things.’

The guys looked at each other. They were confused. Why was their enemy helping them? Then frustration took over. Now that Reacher had suggested using the tools as weapons that was the last thing they could do. They would lose too much face.

Reacher looked at them. They were lined up, bubbling with aggression. Gripped by ideological fury. The pack versus the infidel. He was the infidel. And he’d found out what he needed to know. The core of it, anyway. He had a car. He could drive away. That would be the smart thing to do. But – Nazis. He thought of his mother. A child during World War II. In occupied France. Often hungry. Often cold. Sometimes in danger. This was no time to walk away.

The six guys were standing in a line about a foot apart, ten feet away from Reacher, advancing slowly. It was a straightforward problem. The goal was to reduce their numbers as quickly as possible. Reacher’s usual tactic was to goad his opponents when he was outnumbered. Make them come at him fast. He would wait until they were five feet away then burst forward and smash through the centre of the line, elbowing the guy to his right as he went. The enemy force would instantly be depleted. And turned around. Literally. Reacher would be behind them. Out of sight. So they’d process the surprise, and turn. Only Reacher would already have turned. He would have launched himself back the other way. Elbow still up. Still swinging. Flattening the guy who had been on his left, but was now on his right. If Reacher timed it right, the guy would rush into the blow like a drunk heading the wrong direction on the highway. Timing came with experience. Reacher had plenty of experience. But on this occasion, he also had a problem. Zach was in the spot to the right of centre. And he didn’t want Zach to go down first. He wanted to save him for last.

Reacher waited and watched. The guy at the end to his left was creeping wide. Moving away on a diagonal. Aiming to sneak around him while he was occupied with the others. Which gave Reacher an idea. He pretended to look to his right, to encourage the flanking guy. Waited until the line was seven feet away. Six. Then he took a half step to his right. But he didn’t follow through. He planted his foot and used it to propel himself left, aiming for the gap between the end two guys. He found it. Raised both elbows as he moved. Swung them forward. Caught one guy below the chin. The other full in the face. Both went down like planks. Reacher spun back clockwise, leading with his right elbow. The blow missed the next guy in line, but its momentum fuelled the roundhouse punch Reacher was aiming with his left. His fist connected with the side of the guy’s head. Three down.

Half his opponents were out of the game. And the remainder were no longer facing him broadside, where their numbers could be brought to bear. They were lined up single file, as if asking to be knocked down one at a time. A single solid punch to the first guy’s face might even account for all of them. More than likely two of them. Reacher was tempted to try it. But there was a problem. The next guy in line was Zach, so a different approach was called for. Reacher feinted a jab towards Zach’s face, and when his guard was raised kicked him in the knee. Zach flopped down and Reacher kicked him again, in the solar plexus, driving the air out of his body and leaving him curled up on the ground, gasping.

The last two guys pulled back and fanned out. Reacher could practically see the cogs spinning in their heads. What had just happened? What should they do now? Run? Fight? How? He used the momentary respite to stamp on Zach’s hands, in case he had a hidden gun or blade, then stepped forward.

‘I’ve got to tell you this, even though I’ll hate myself for it,’ he said. ‘The fight is over, guys. You lost. You should walk away. Spare yourselves the pain.’

The guys glanced at each other. Neither spoke. Then they spread wider, forming a triangle with Reacher at the tip. Reacher was calculating the angles. Assessing the geometry. Concluding that the next shape would be a straight line. With him in the centre. So that the guys could rush him simultaneously. Present two targets. Two threats. Making it hard to defend. If he allowed it to happen it was likely he would at least get hit. And Reacher was opposed to getting hit. Not out of vanity. Not out of an aversion to pain. But because it reduced efficiency. His normal response was to let a pair of attackers close in. Gain pace. Then he would lunge to his left. One would be driven back in surprise. The other would be pulled forward, a hunter pursuing its prey. Then Reacher would reverse. And reverse again, catching each attacker by surprise. But this time there was a problem. The guys were moving too slowly. They were creeping cautiously forward. Reacher’s plan required pace. Momentum. So he changed it. He sprang to the side and grabbed the larger guy by his right arm. He continued to turn, dragging the guy with him, then pivoted into a full 360-degree spin. Reacher planted his feet and used his weight like a hammer thrower so that when he was three quarters of the way around the other guy’s feet were off the ground. And when he was all the way around the guy’s feet were waist high. They slammed into his buddy like a double roundhouse kick, sending him sprawling. Reacher set his guy down. Waited a moment to make sure he was steady on his feet. Then punched him full in the face. It was a massive, savage blow, landing like a sledgehammer, smashing all kinds of bones and cartilage and teeth. The other guy was trying to crawl away so Reacher went after him and kicked him in the head. Normally he would have used his left foot in a situation like that, where the guy was already down. His weaker foot. But this guy was a Nazi. So he used his right. And he didn’t hold back.