Lee Child - Bad Luck and Trouble

“Where are we holing up?” Dixon asked, through the window.

“Somewhere different,” Reacher said. “So far they’ve seen us in the Wilshire and the Chateau Marmont. So now we need a change of pace. We need the kind of place they won’t think to look. Let’s try the Dunes on Sunset.”

“What is that?”

“A motel. My kind of place.”

“How bad is it?”

“It’s fine. It has beds. And doors that lock.”

Reacher and Neagley took off first. Traffic was slow all the way out of town and then the 15 emptied and Reacher settled in for the cruise across the desert. The car was quiet and swift and civilized. Neagley spent the first thirty minutes playing phone tag around Edwards Air Force Base, trying to get Diana Bond on the line before her cell coverage failed. Reacher tuned her out and concentrated on the road ahead. He was an adequate driver, but not great. He had learned in the army and had never received civilian instruction. Never passed a civilian test, never held a civilian license. Neagley was a much better driver than he was. And much faster. She finished her calls and fidgeted with impatience. Kept glancing over at the speedometer.

“Drive it like you stole it,” she said. “Which you did.”

So he accelerated a little. Started passing people, including a medium-sized U-Haul truck lumbering west in the right-hand lane.

Ten miles shy of Barstow, Dixon caught up with them and flashed her lights and pulled alongside and O’Donnell made eating motions from the passenger seat. Like helpless masochists they stopped at the same diner they had used before. No alternative for miles, and they were all hungry. They hadn’t eaten lunch.

The food was as bad as before and the conversation was desultory. Mostly they talked about Sanchez and Orozco. About how hard it was to keep a viable small business going. Especially about how hard it was for ex-military people. They entered the civilian world with all the wrong assumptions. They expected the same kind of certainties they had known before. The straightforwardness, the transparency, the honesty, the shared sacrifice. Reacher felt that part of the time Dixon and O’Donnell were actually talking about themselves. He wondered exactly how well they were doing, behind their facades. Exactly how it all looked on paper for them, at tax time. And how it was going to look a year from then. Dixon was in trouble because she had walked out on her last job. O’Donnell had been out for a spell with his sister. Only Neagley seemed to have no worries. She was an unqualified success. But she was one out of nine. A hit rate a fraction better than eleven percent, for some of the finest graduates the army had ever produced.

Not good.

You’re well out of it , Dixon had said.

I usually feel that way , he had replied.

All that we’ve got that you don’t is suitcases , O’Donnell had said.

But what have I got that you don’t ? he had replied.

He finished the meal a little closer to an answer than before.

After Barstow came Victorville and Lake Arrowhead. Then the mountains reared in front of them. But first, this time to their right, were the badlands where the helicopter had flown. Once again Reacher told himself he wouldn’t look, but once again he did. He took his eyes off the road and glanced north and west for seconds at a time. Sanchez and Swan were out there somewhere, he guessed. He saw no reason to hope otherwise.

They passed through an active cell and Neagley’s phone rang. Diana Bond, all set to leave Edwards at a moment’s notice. Reacher said, “Tell her to meet us at that Denny’s on Sunset. Where we were before.” Neagley made a face and he said, “It’s going to taste like Maxim’s in Paris after that place we just stopped.”

So Neagley arranged the rendezvous and he kicked the transmission down and climbed onto Mount San Antonio ’s first low slopes. Less than an hour later they were checking in at the Dunes Motel.

The Dunes was the kind of place where no room went even close to three figures for the night and where guests were required to leave a security deposit for the TV remote, which was issued with great ceremony along with the key. Reacher paid cash from his stolen wad for all four rooms, which got around the necessity for real names and ID. They parked the cars out of sight of the street and regrouped in a dark battered lounge next to a laundry room, as anonymous as four people could get in Los Angeles County.

Reacher’s kind of place.

An hour later Diana Bond called Neagley to say she was pulling into the Denny’s lot.

They walked a short stretch of Sunset and stepped into the Denny’s neon lobby and found a tall blonde woman waiting for them. She was alone. She was dressed all in black. Black jacket, black blouse, black skirt, black stockings, black high-heeled shoes. Serious East Coast style, a little out of place on the West Coast and seriously out of place in a Denny’s on the West Coast. She was slim, attractive, clearly intelligent, somewhere in her late thirties.

She looked a little irritated and preoccupied.

She looked a little worried.

Neagley introduced her all around. “This is Diana Bond,” she said. “From Washington D.C. via Edwards Air Force Base.”

Diana Bond had nothing with her except a small crocodile purse. No briefcase, not that Reacher expected notes or blueprints. They led her through the shabby restaurant and found a round table in back. Five people wouldn’t fit in a booth. A waitress came over and they ordered coffee. The waitress came back with five heavy mugs and a flask, and poured. They each took a preliminary sip, in silence. Then Diana Bond spoke. She didn’t start with small talk. Instead she said, “I could have you all arrested.”

Reacher nodded.

“I’m kind of surprised you haven’t,” he said. “I was kind of expecting to find a bunch of agents here with you.”

Bond said, “One call to the Defense Intelligence Agency would have done it.”

“So why didn’t you make that call?”

“I’m trying to be civilized.”

“And loyal,” Reacher said. “To your boss.”

“And to my country. I really would urge you not to pursue this line of inquiry.”

Reacher said, “That would give you another wasted journey.”

“I’d be very happy to waste another journey.”

“Our tax dollars at work.”

“I’m pleading with you.”

“Deaf ears.”

“I’m appealing to your patriotism. This is a question of national security.”

Reacher said, “Between the four of us here, we’ve got sixty years in uniform. How many have you got?”

“None.”

“How many has your boss got?”

“None.”

“Then shut up about patriotism and national security, OK? You’re not qualified.”

“Why on earth do you need to know about Little Wing?”

“We had a friend who worked for New Age. We’re trying to complete his obituary.”

“He’s dead?”

“Probably.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“But again, I would appeal to you not to press this.”

“No deal.”

Diana Bond paused a long moment. Then she nodded.

“I’ll trade,” she said. “I’ll give you outline details, and in return you swear on those sixty years in uniform that they’ll go no further.”

“Deal.”

“And after I talk to you this one time, I never hear from you again.”

“Deal.”

Another long pause. Like Bond was wrestling with her conscience.

“Little Wing is a new type of torpedo,” she said. “For the Navy’s Pacific submarine fleet. It’s fairly conventional apart from an enhanced control capability because of new electronics.”