Lee Child - Bad Luck and Trouble

Reacher fetched the suitcase and they gathered in O’Donnell’s room and checked over the stolen Glocks. Dixon took the 19 and said she was happy with it. O’Donnell sorted through the remaining six 17s and picked out the best three among them. He paired them with the magazines from the rejects so that he and Neagley and Reacher would have fast reloads the first time around. Dixon would have to reload manually after her first seventeen shots. Not a huge issue. If a handgun engagement wasn’t over inside seventeen shots, then someone wasn’t paying attention, and Reacher trusted Dixon to pay attention. She always had, in the past.

Reacher asked, “What kind of security can we expect around their building?”

“State of the art locks,” Neagley said. “An intruder alarm on the gate. I imagine the door opener at reception will be wired as a proximity sensor at night. Plus another intruder alarm, probably. Plus motion sensors all over the place inside. Plus intruder alarms on some of the individual office doors, maybe. All hard-wired out through the phone lines. Possibly with wireless backup, maybe even a satellite uplink.”

“And who’s going to respond?”

“That’s a very good question. Not the cops, I think. Too low-rent. My guess is it will all pipe straight through to their own security people.”

“Not the government?”

“That would make sense, for sure. The Pentagon is spending zillions there, you’d think the government would want to be involved. But I doubt if they are. Not everything makes sense nowadays. They gave airport security to private contractors. And the nearest DIA office is a long way away. So I think New Age’s security will be handled in-house, however cool Little Wing is.”

“How long will we have after we breach the gate?”

“Who says we’re going to? We don’t have keys and you can’t pick a lock like that with a rusty nail. I don’t think we’ll be able to beat any of the locks.”

“I’ll worry about the locks. How long will we have, after we’re inside?”

“Two minutes,” Neagley said. “A situation like that, the two-minute rule is the only thing we can rely on.”

“OK,” Reacher said. “We’ll go at one in the morning. Dinner at six. Get some rest.”

The others headed for the door. He followed them out, with the keys to the captured Chrysler in his hand. Neagley looked at him, quizzically.

“We don’t need it anymore,” he said to her. “I’m going to give it back. But first I’m going to have it washed. We should try to be civilized.”

Reacher drove the Chrysler back to Van Nuys Boulevard, north of the Ventura Freeway. The auto strip, where there were car-related enterprises of every kind lined up side by side, one after the other. Dealers, obviously, new and used, cheap and expensive, gaudy and restrained, but also tire shops, wheel shops, paintless dent repair, lube franchises, muffler-and-shock shops, and accessory stores.

And car washes.

There was a huge choice. Machine washing, brushless hand washing, underbody steam cleaning, three-stage waxing, full service detailing. He drove a mile up and a mile back and picked out four places that offered everything. He stopped at the first of them and asked for the total treatment. A swarm of guys in coveralls took over and he stood in the sun and watched them work. First the interior was vacuumed out and then the whole car was dragged through a glass tunnel on a moving chain and was sprayed by a sequence of nozzles with water and all kinds of foams and fluids. Guys with sponges washed the sheet metal and guys on plastic steps lathered the roof. Then the car passed under a roaring air dryer and was driven out to the apron, where other guys waited to attack the interior with aerosols and rags. They went over every inch and left it gleaming and immaculate and damp with oily residue. Reacher paid and tipped and pulled his gloves out of his pocket and put them on and drove the car away.

He stopped a hundred yards farther on, at the second place he had picked out, and asked for the whole process to be repeated all over again. The receptionist looked puzzled for a second and then shrugged and waved a crew over. Reacher stood in the sun again and watched the show. The vacuum, the shampoo, the interior, the aerosols, and the towels. He paid and tipped and put his gloves back on and drove back to the motel.

He left the car in a corner of the lot, in the sun, where it would dry. Then he walked a long block south to Fountain Avenue. Found a place that had started out as a pharmacy and then had become the kind of drugstore that sold all kinds of small household items. He went in and bought four flashlights. Three-cell Maglites, black, powerful enough to be useful, small enough to be maneuverable, big enough to be used as clubs. The girl at the register put them in a white bag with I love LA on it, three capital letters and a red heart-shaped symbol. Reacher carried the bag back to the motel, swinging it gently, listening to the quiet rustle of plastic.

They couldn’t face Denny’s again for dinner. They called out to Domino’s instead, for pizzas, and ate them in the battered lounge next to the laundry room. They drank soda from a noisy red machine outside the door. A perfect meal, for what they had in mind. Some empty calories, some fats, some complex carbohydrates. Time-release energy, good for about twelve hours. An army doctor had explained it all to them, many years before.

“Objectives for tonight?” O’Donnell asked.

“Three,” Reacher said. “First, Dixon hits the reception desk for anything useful. Second, Neagley finds the dragon lady’s office and hits that. You and I hit the other offices for whatever else they’ve got. A hundred and twenty seconds, in and out. Then third, we ID the security people when they show up.”

“We’re waiting around afterward?”

“I am,” Reacher said. “You guys are heading back.”

Reacher went up to his room and brushed his teeth and took a long hot shower. Then he stretched out full length on the bed and took a nap. The clock in his head woke him at half past midnight. He stretched and brushed his teeth again and dressed. Gray denim pants, gray shirt, black windbreaker zipped all the way up. Boots, tightly laced. Gloves on. The Chrysler keys in one pants pocket, the spare Glock mag in the other. The captured cell phone from Vegas in one shirt pocket, his own phone in the other. The Maglite in one jacket pocket, the Glock itself in the other. Nothing else.

He walked out to the lot at ten minutes before one o’clock. The others were already there, a shadowy trio standing well away from any pools of light.

“OK,” he said. He turned to O’Donnell and Neagley. “You guys drive your Hondas.” He turned to Dixon. “Karla, you drive mine. You park it close, facing west, and you leave the keys in for me. Then you ride back with Dave.”

Dixon said, “Are you really going to leave the Chrysler there?”

“We don’t need it.”

“It’s full of our prints and hair and fiber.”

“Not anymore. A bunch of guys up on Van Nuys just made sure of that. Now let’s go.”

They bumped fists like ballplayers, an old ritual, and then they dispersed and climbed into their cars. Reacher slid into the Chrysler and started it up, the heavy V-8 beat slow and loud in the darkness. He heard the Hondas start, their smaller engines coughing and popping and their big-bore mufflers throbbing. He backed out of his slot and turned and headed for the exit. In his mirror he saw three pairs of bright blue headlights strung out behind him. He swung east on Sunset and south on La Brea and then east again on Wilshire and saw the others following him all the way, a ragged little convoy hanging together in the light nighttime traffic.