Lee Child - The Enemy

“You’re not welcome here,” he said.

“I’ll get over it. I’m not an unduly sensitive person.”

“You’re not listening,” he said. “This is my place and I don’t want you in it.”

“I’ll be quick.”

“Leave now.”

“No.”

“Look at me.”

He leaned forward into the light. Slowly. The downlighter beam rode up his chest. Up his neck. Onto his face. It was an incredible face. It had started out ugly and it had gotten much worse. He had straight razor scars all over it. They crisscrossed it like a lattice. They were deep and white and old. His nose had been busted and badly reset and busted again and badly reset again, many times over. He had brows thick with scar tissue. Two small eyes were staring out at me from under them. He was maybe forty. Maybe five-ten, maybe three hundred pounds. He looked like a gladiator who had survived twenty years, deep inside the catacombs.

I smiled. “This thing with the face is supposed to impress me? With the dramatic lighting and all?”

“It should tell you something.”

“It tells me you lost a lot of fights. You want to lose another, that’s fine with me.”

He said nothing.

“Or I could put this place off-limits to every enlisted man at Bird. I could see what that does to your bar profits.”

He said nothing.

“But I don’t want to do that,” I said. “No reason to penalize my guys, just because you’re an asshole.”

He said nothing.

“So I guess I’ll ignore you.”

He sat back. The shadow slid back into place, like a curtain.

“I’ll see you later,” he said, from out of the darkness. “Somewhere, sometime. That’s for sure. That’s a promise. You can count on that.”

“ Now I’m scared,” I said. I moved on and pressed into the crowd. I made it through a packed bottleneck and into the main part of the building. It was much bigger inside than it had looked. It was a big low square, full of noise and people. There were dozens of separate areas. Speakers everywhere. Loud music. Flashing lights. There were plenty of civilians in there. Plenty of military too. I could spot them by their haircuts, and their clothes. Off-duty soldiers always dress distinctively. They try to look like everybody else, and they fail. They’re always a little clean and out-of-date. They were all looking at me as I passed them by. They weren’t pleased to see me. I looked for a sergeant. Looked for a few lines around the eyes. I saw four likely candidates, six feet back from the edge of the main stage. Three of them saw me and turned away. The fourth saw me and paused for a second and then turned toward me. Like he knew he had been selected. He was a compact guy maybe five years older than me. Special Forces, probably. There were plenty of them at Bird, and he had the look. He was having a good time. That was clear. He had a smile on his face and a bottle in his hand. Cold beer, dewy with moisture. He raised it, like a toast, like an invitation to approach. So I went up close to him and spoke in his ear.

“Spread the word for me,” I said. “This is nothing official. Nothing to do with our guys. Something else entirely.”

“Like what?” he said.

“Lost property,” I said. “Nothing important. Everything’s cool.”

He said nothing.

“Special Forces?” I said.

He nodded. “Lost property?”

“No big deal,” I said. “Just something that went missing across the street.”

He thought about it and then he raised his bottle again and clinked it against where mine would have been if I had bought one. It was a clear display of acceptance. Like a mime, in all the noise. But even so a thin stream of men started up, shuffling toward the exit. Maybe twenty grunts left during my first two minutes in the room. MPs have that effect. No wonder the guy with the face didn’t want me in there.

A waitress came up to me. She was wearing a black T-shirt cut off about four inches below the neck and black shorts cut off about four inches below the waist and black shoes with very high heels. Nothing else. She stood there and looked at me until I ordered something. I asked for a Bud, and I paid about eight times its value. Took a couple of sips, and then went looking for whores.

They found me first. I guess they wanted me out of sight before I emptied the place completely. Before I reduced their customer base to zero. Two of them came straight at me. One was a platinum blonde. The other was a brunette. Both were wearing tiny tight sheath dresses that sparkled with all kinds of synthetic fibers. The blonde got in front of the brunette and headed her off. Came clattering straight toward me, awkward in absurd clear plastic heels. The brunette wheeled away and headed for the Special Forces sergeant I had spoken to. He waved her off with what looked like an expression of genuine distaste. The blonde kept on track and came right up next to me and leaned on my arm. Stretched up tall until I could feel her breath in my ear.

“Happy New Year,” she said.

“You too,” I said.

“I haven’t seen you in here before,” she said, like I was the only thing missing from her life. Her accent wasn’t local. She wasn’t from the Carolinas. She wasn’t from California either. Georgia or Alabama, probably.

“You new in town?” she asked, loud, because of the music.

I smiled. I had been in more whorehouses than I cared to count. All MPs have. Every single one is the same, and every single one is different. They all have different protocols. But the Are you new in town ? question was a standard opening gambit. It invited me to start the negotiations. It insulated her from a solicitation charge.

“What’s the deal here?” I asked her.

She smiled shyly, like she had never been asked such a thing before. Then she told me I could watch her onstage in exchange for dollar tips, or I could spend ten to get a private show in a back room. She explained the private show could involve touching, and to make sure I was paying attention she ran her hand up the inside of my thigh.

I could see how a guy could be tempted. She was cute. She looked to be about twenty. Except for her eyes. Her eyes looked like a fifty-year-old’s.

“What about something more?” I said. “Someplace else we could go?”

“We can talk about that during the private show.”

She took me by the hand and led me past their dressing room door and through a velvet curtain into a dim room behind the stage. It wasn’t small. It was maybe thirty feet by twenty. It had an upholstered bench running around the whole perimeter. It wasn’t especially private either. There were about six guys in there, each of them with a naked woman on his lap. The blonde girl led me to a space on the bench and sat me down. She waited until I came out with my wallet and paid her ten bucks. Then she draped herself over me and snuggled in tight. The way she sat made it impossible for me not to put my hand on her thigh. Her skin was warm and smooth.

“So where can we go?” I asked.

“You’re in a hurry,” she said. She moved around and eased the hem of her dress up over her hips. She wasn’t wearing anything under it.

“Where are you from?” I asked her.

“Atlanta,” she said.

“What’s your name?”

“Sin,” she said. “Spelled S, i, n .”

I was fairly certain that was a professional alias.

“What’s yours?” she said.

“Reacher,” I said. There was no point adopting an alias of my own. I was fresh from the widow visit, still in Class As, with my nameplate big and obvious on my right jacket pocket.

“That’s a nice name,” she said, automatically. I was fairly certain she said it to everybody. Quasimodo, Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, that’s a nice name . She moved her hand. Started with the top button of my jacket and undid it all the way down. Smoothed her fingers inside across my chest, under my tie, on top of my shirt.