Ли Чайлд - The Sentinel

So he moved to his right. Along the side of the car. To the passenger door. Opened it. And slid inside.

Reacher had spent plenty of time in places he didn’t want to be. Mostly during his army service. Places that were too hot. Or too cold. Where everything that moved wanted to bite him. Or where everyone he met wanted to kill him. But in those days he didn’t have a choice about where he went. He was following orders. And at least he was getting paid.

Reacher didn’t want to be in the Lincoln. He wasn’t getting paid. And he did have a choice. The Moscow guy had secured Reacher’s wrists with plasticuffs before firing up the engine but that was no kind of an obstacle. It would be the easiest thing in the world for Reacher to wait until the car slowed at the mouth of the alley. Open the door. Step out. And walk away. It would be more satisfying to elbow the Moscow guy in the side of the head and then get out. But given the role he was supposed to be playing – a not-very-bright part-time bodyguard – a more prudent option would be to leap out and add a little drama to his performance. Act panicked. Zigzag down the sidewalk and dive into the nearest store, or dash headlong into the traffic. Reacher knew he could make it look convincing. He wasn’t worried about that. He settled back in his seat. The car started to move. A few more seconds. A few more yards, and the game would be won.

Reacher wasn’t worried. Not until Fisher leaned forward and jammed the tip of the SOCOM’s suppressor into the base of his skull.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said.

Fisher’s hand seemed to twitch slightly. Not enough to pull the gun away from Reacher’s skin. Nothing that the other woman would notice from the other side of the back seat. Nothing that would catch the Moscow guy’s attention. But enough for Reacher to feel the variation in pressure. Three short jabs.

A slight twitch.

Or an S in Morse code.

‘You’re wondering if you could escape,’ she said.

Her hand twitched again. One long push. A T .

‘Well, you can’t,’ she said.

A jab, and a push. An A .

‘That would be a mistake,’ she said.

A push, a jab, and two more pushes. A Y .

‘You could get hurt,’ she said.

Four jabs. An H .

‘And there’s no need, anyway,’ she said.

One jab. An E .

‘We just need to check that the server’s the real deal,’ she said.

A jab, a push, and two more jabs. An L .

‘That won’t take long. Then we’ll give you your money,’ she said.

A jab, two pushes, and another jab. A P .

‘And then, and this is the truth, you can go,’ she said.

Reacher put the letters together. STAY HELP. ‘Me?’ Reacher said. ‘I’m not going anywhere. Not without my money.’

The Moscow guy drove west for eight miles, not too fast, not too slow, and twelve minutes later he pulled up outside the room furthest from the office at a motel that Reacher thought must be a similar vintage to his own. It had a similar mythical bird on its sign, lit up with neon. Similar wood cladding. The same selection of vending machines. A familiar rhythm of window and door, window and door. Only this place was built in a straight line, not around a courtyard. It had half the number of rooms. And when the Moscow guy led him into number eighteen, Reacher saw there was already someone inside. A woman, in her late thirties. She was wearing a pale, knee-length skirt. A peach-coloured polo shirt, with a logo. Her hair was cut in a neat bob. Her face was plain but earnest. She was sitting at a large wooden table with a laptop computer. A thick blue wire led to a three-foot-high equipment cabinet with reinforced edges and heavy-duty castors, parked next to her chair. She was the Russians’ version of Rusty Rutherford, Reacher figured. There to assess the server. And she was already in place. Reacher appreciated the efficiency.

Beyond the woman at the table with her computer Reacher could see that the space was much larger than his motel room. It was more like a suite. There were doors leading to a pair of bedrooms. A small kitchen. And a sitting area with a couch and a TV. The Moscow guy pushed Reacher a couple of yards further forward. The other woman on the crew followed them in and continued into one of the bedrooms. Fisher came in last. She put the stripy bag containing the server on the table and pulled out another chair. Then she took Reacher by the arm and guided him to it.

‘Sit,’ she said. ‘And be careful. Don’t break it.’

Reacher lowered himself down and Fisher took a length of paracord from the thigh pocket at the side of her pants. It was blue with red flecks. And narrow. Its diameter wasn’t much greater than a decent bootlace. But Reacher knew the size was deceptive. It would be strong enough to take a regular person’s weight, in an emergency. He would have no chance of snapping it. Fisher used it to tie Reacher’s right ankle to the leg of the chair. She bound it tight. There was no slack. No room to wriggle free. No way it could come undone. Fisher pulled out another piece of cord and tied Reacher’s left ankle. Then she grabbed hold of the little finger on his right hand. Pulled it to the side, as far as it would go. Took a folding knife out of her pocket. And extended its blade.

‘I’m going to cut this tie,’ she said, sliding the knife blade between Reacher’s wrists and the plasticuff. ‘Do anything stupid and I’ll break your finger.’

‘I’ve already done something stupid,’ Reacher said. ‘I’ve come here with you.’

Fisher freed his wrists and tied them one by one low down to the chair’s back legs. When she was done she moved aside. The Moscow guy took her place. He checked the knots. Each one in turn. Carefully. And when he was satisfied he turned to the woman at the table. The server was lined up next to her laptop, and another pair of cables snaked down from the back of it and into the portable cabinet.

‘How does it look?’ he said.

The woman nodded. ‘Genuine. No doubt about that.’

‘Good. Call me the second you find the document. Or when you’re certain it’s not there.’ Then he turned to Fisher. ‘And you – watch Mr Reacher. Carefully. He and I will need to have a conversation. Whatever the outcome.’

Fisher waited for the door to close behind the Moscow guy then sat down next to the woman at the table. Reacher could see the laptop screen between their heads. It was like when Sands had searched the original server at their motel. A succession of images, presumably documents and records of various kinds. Reacher could see official-looking scrolls and seals on some but others looked more like handwritten letters and notes. Most of the words were impossible to make out. They were too small. Too spidery and intricate. And he was too far away. Though he doubted they would be any more interesting if they were legible. To him, anyway. The Russians clearly had a different reason for reading them. They didn’t just want to confirm that the server was genuine. They wanted to know if the incriminating detail was there. If it wasn’t they were free and clear. There would be nothing that could help the FBI expose the spy. And they’d have no further use for Reacher. If it was there, though, that would be a different story. There would be a chance for Fisher to save The Sentinel. And then the question of copies would come into play. As in, had Reacher kept any. Which was presumably the reason the Moscow guy had changed the plan. Why he had wanted to bring Reacher to the motel. That, and his desire to stamp his authority on the team. Neither of which amounted to an attractive proposition, from Reacher’s point of view.