Lee Child - Worth Dying For

‘Which one of them shot the guys in the Ford?’

‘I can’t tell them apart. One did the shooting, and the other one set fire to the car.’

‘And you saw that with your own eyes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would you go to court and say so?’

‘No, because the Duncans are involved.’

‘Would you if the Duncans weren’t involved?’

‘I don’t have that much imagination.’

‘You told me.’

‘Privately.’

‘Tell me again.’

‘One of them shot the guys and the other one burned their car.’

‘OK,’ Reacher said. ‘That’s good enough.’

‘For what?’

‘Call them,’ Reacher said. ‘One minute from now. In their rooms. Talk in a whisper. Tell them I’m in your lot, right outside your window, looking at the wreck.’

‘I can’t be involved in this.’

‘This is the last day,’ Reacher said. ‘Tomorrow will be different.’

‘Forgive me if I prefer to wait and see.’

‘Tomorrow there are going to be three kinds of people here,’ Reacher said. ‘Some dead, some sheepish, and some with a little self-respect. You need to get yourself in that third group.’

Vincent said nothing.

‘You know Eleanor Duncan?’ Reacher asked.

‘She’s OK,’ Vincent said. ‘She was never part of this.’

‘She’ll be taking over. She’ll be hauling your stuff tomorrow.’

Vincent said nothing.

‘Call the Italians one minute from now,’ Reacher said. He stepped back out to the lot and walked on the silver baulks of timber, past room one, past room two, past three and four and five and six, and then he looped around behind room seven and room eight, and came out again near room nine. He stood in a narrow gap shaped like an hourglass, the circular bulk of room eight right there in front of him, close enough to touch, room seven one building along, the Chevy and the Subaru and the burned-out Ford trailing away from him, south to north, in a line. He took out the dead Iranian’s Glock and checked the chamber.

All set.

He waited.

He heard the room phones ring, first one, then the other, both of them faint behind walls and closed doors. He pictured men rolling over on beds, struggling awake, sitting up, blinking, checking the time, looking around the unfamiliar spaces, finding the phones on the nightstands, answering them, listening to Vincent’s urgent whispered messages.

He waited.

He knew what was going to happen. Whoever opened up first would wait in the doorway, half in and half out, gun drawn, leaning, craning his neck, watching for his partner to emerge. Then there would be gestures, sign language, and a cautious joint approach.

He waited.

Room eight opened up first. Reacher saw a hand on the jamb, then a pistol pointing almost vertical, then a forearm, then an elbow, then the back of a head. The pistol was a Colt Double Eagle. The forearm and the elbow were covered with a wrinkled shirtsleeve. The head was covered in uncombed black hair.

Reacher backed off a step and waited. He heard room seven’s door open. He sensed more than heard the rustle of starched cotton, the silent debate, the pointing and the tapped chests assigning roles, the raised arms indicating directions, the spread fingers indicating timings. The obvious move would be for the guy from room eight to leapfrog ahead and then duck around behind room six and circle the lounge on the blind side and hit the lot from the north, while the guy from room seven waited a beat and then crept up directly from the south. A no-brainer.

They went for it. Reacher heard the farther guy step out and wait, and the nearer guy step out and walk. Eight paces, Reacher thought, before the latter passed the former. He counted in his head, and on six he stepped out, and on seven he raised the Glock, and on eight he screamed FREEZE FREEZE FREEZE and both men froze, already surrendering, guns held low near their thighs, tired, just woken up, confused and disoriented. Reacher stayed with the full-on experience and screamed DROP YOUR WEAPONS PUT YOUR WEAPONS ON THE GROUND and both men complied instantly, the heavy stainless pieces hitting the gravel in unison. Reacher screamed STEP AWAY STEP AWAY STEP AWAY and both men stepped away, out into the lot, isolated, far from their rooms, far from their car.

Reacher breathed in and looked at them from behind. They were both in pants and shirts and shoes. No jackets, no coats. Reacher said, ‘Turn around.’

They turned around.

The one on the left said, ‘You.’

Reacher said, ‘Finally we meet. How’s your day going so far?’

No answer.

Reacher said, ‘Now turn out your pants pockets. All the way. Pull the linings right out.’

They obeyed. Quarters and dimes and bright new pennies rained down, and tissues fluttered, and cell phones hit the gravel. Plus a car key, with a bulbous black head and a plastic fob shaped liked a big number one. Reacher said, ‘Now back away. Keep going until I tell you to stop.’

They walked backward, and Reacher walked forward with them, keeping pace, eight steps, ten, and then Reacher arrived at where their Colts had fallen and said, ‘OK, stop.’ He ducked down and picked up one of the guns. He ejected the magazine and it fell to the ground and he saw it was full. He picked up the other gun. Its magazine was one short.

‘Who?’ he asked.

The guy on the left said, ‘The other one.’

‘The other what?’

‘The Iranians. You got one, we got the other. We’re on the same side here.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Reacher said. He moved on towards the small pile of pocket junk and picked up the car key. He pressed the button set in the head and he heard the Chevy’s doors unlock. He said, ‘Get in the back seat.’

The guy on the left asked, ‘Do you know who we are?’

‘Yes,’ Reacher said. ‘You’re two jerks who just got beat.’

‘We work for a guy named Rossi, in Las Vegas. He’s connected. He’s the kind of guy you can’t mess with.’

‘Forgive me if I don’t immediately faint with terror.’

‘He’s got money, too. Lots of money. Maybe we could work something out.’

‘Like what?’

‘There’s a deal going down here. We could cut you in. Make you rich.’

‘I’m already rich.’

‘You don’t look it. I’m serious. Lots of money.’

‘I’ve got everything I need. That’s the definition of affluence.’

The guy paused a beat, and then he started up again, like a salesman. He said, ‘Tell me what I can do to make this right for you.’

‘You can get in the back seat of your car.’

‘Why?’

‘Because my arms are sore and I don’t want to drag you.’

‘No, why do you want us in the car?’

‘Because we’re going for a drive.’

‘Where?’

‘I’ll tell you after you get in.’

The two men glanced at a spot in the air halfway between them, not daring to let their eyes meet, not daring to believe their luck. An opportunity. Them in the back, a solo driver in the front. Reacher tracked them with the Glock, all the way to the car. One got in on the near side, and the other looped around the trunk. Reacher saw him glance onward, at the road, at the open fields beyond, and then Reacher saw him give up on the impulse to run. Flat land. Nowhere to hide. A modern nine-millimetre sidearm, accurate out to fifty feet or more. The guy opened his door and ducked his head and folded himself inside. The Impala was not a small car, but it was no limousine in the rear. Both guys had their feet trapped under the front seats, and even though they were neither large nor tall, they were both cramped and close together.

Reacher opened the driver’s door. He put his knee on the seat and leaned inside. The guy who had spoken before asked, ‘So where are we going?’