Lee Child - One Shot

He paused on the top step and stretched in the warmth. Rolled his shoulders, flexed his hands, took a deep breath of air. He was cramped from driving and sitting all day. And oppressed by hiding out. It felt good just to stand still and do nothing, high up and exposed. Out in the open, in the daylight. Below him to his left the cars were gone except for the black Suburban. The street was quiet. He glanced to his right. There was traffic building up on the north-south drag. To his left, there was less. He figured he would dodge west first. But a long way west, because the police station must be near. He would need to loop around it. Then he would head north. North of downtown was a warren. North of downtown was where he felt best.

He started down the stairs. As he stepped off onto the sidewalk at the bottom he heard a footfall fifteen feet behind him. A side step. Thin soles on limestone grit. Quiet. Then the unmistakable crunch-crunch of a pump-action shotgun racking a round.

Then a voice.

It said: “Stop right there.”

An American accent. Quiet, but distinct. From somewhere way north . Reacher stopped. Stood still and stared straight ahead at a blank brick wall across the street.

The voice said: “Step to your right.”

Reacher stepped to his right. A long sideways shuffle.

The voice said: “Now turn around real slow.”

Reacher turned around, real slow. He kept his hands away from his body, palms out. Saw a small figure fifteen feet away. The same guy he had seen the night before, from the shadows. Not more than five-four, not more than a hundred and thirty pounds, slight, pale, with cropped black hair that stuck up crazily. Chenko. Or Charlie. In his right hand, rock-steady, was a sawn-off with a pistol grip. In his left hand was some kind of a black thing.

“Catch,” Charlie said.

He tossed the black thing underhand. Reacher watched it tumble and sparkle through the air straight at him and his subconscious said: Not a grenade . So he caught it. Two-handed. It was a shoe. A woman’s patent-leather dress shoe, black, with a heel. It was still slightly warm.

“Now toss it back,” Charlie said. “Just like I did.”

Reacher paused. Whose shoe was it ? He stared down at it.

Low heel.

Rosemary Barr’s?

“Toss it back,” Charlie called. “Nice and slow.”

Assess and evaluate . Reacher was unarmed. He was holding a shoe. Not a stone, not a rock. The shoe was lightweight and unaerodynamic. It wouldn’t do anyone any harm. It would stall and flutter in the air and Charlie would just swat it away.

“Toss it back,” Charlie said again.

Reacher did nothing. He could tear the heel off and throw it like a dart. Like a missile. But Charlie would shoot him while he was drawing his arm back and winding up. Charlie was fifteen feet away, poised, balanced, unblinking, with the gun rock-steady in his hand. Too close to miss, too far to get to.

“Last chance,” Charlie said.

Reacher soft-tossed the shoe back. A long, looping underhand throw. Charlie caught it one-handed and it was like the scene had rewound right back to the beginning.

“She’s in summer school,” Charlie said. “Think about it like that. She’s going to get acquainted with the facts of life. She’s going to work on her testimony. About how her brother planned in advance. About how he let slip what he was going to do. She’s going to be a great witness. She’s going to make the case. You understand that, right?”

Reacher said nothing.

“So the game is over now,” Charlie said.

Reacher said nothing.

“Take two steps backward,” Charlie said.

Reacher took two steps backward. They put him right on the curb. Now Charlie was twenty feet away. He was still holding the shoe. He was smiling.

“Turn around,” he said.

“You going to shoot me?” Reacher asked.

“Maybe.”

“You should.”

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t, I’m going to find you and I’m going to make you sorry.”

“Big talk.”

“Not just talk.”

“So maybe I’ll shoot you.”

“You should.”

“Turn around,” Charlie said.

Reacher turned around.

“Now stand still,” Charlie said.

Reacher stood still. Faced the street. He kept his eyes open. Stared down at the blacktop. It was laid over ancient cobblestones. It was full of small humps in a regular pattern. He started counting them, to fill what might be the last seconds of his life. He strained to hear sounds behind him. Listened for the whisper of clothing as Charlie’s arm extended. Listened for the quiet metallic click as the trigger moved through its first tenth of an inch. Would Charlie shoot? Common sense said no. Homicides were always investigated.

But these people were crazy. And there was a fifty percent chance they owned a local cop. Or that he owned them .

Silence. Reacher strained to hear sounds behind him.

But he heard nothing. Nothing happened. Nothing at all. One minute. Two. Then a hundred yards away to the east he heard a siren. Just two brief electronic blips from a cop car forcing a path through traffic.

“Stand still,” Charlie said again.

Reacher stood still. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Then two police cruisers turned into the street simultaneously. One from the east and one from the west. They were both moving fast. Their engines roared. Their tires howled. Their sounds beat against the brick. They jammed to a stop. Doors opened. Cops spilled out. Reacher turned his head. Charlie wasn’t there anymore.

The arrest was fast and efficient. It went down the usual way. Guns, shouting, handcuffs, Miranda. Reacher stayed silent throughout. He knew better than to speak. He had been a cop and he knew the kind of trouble that talking can get a guy into. And the kind of delay it can cause. Say something, and the cops have to stop to write it down. And Reacher couldn’t afford for anyone to stop. Not right then.

The trip to the station house was mercifully short. Not more than four blocks. Reacher guessed it made sense that an ex-cop like Franklin would pick an office location in the neighborhood he was accustomed to. He used the drive time to work on a strategy. He figured he would be taken straight to Emerson, which gave him a fifty percent chance of being put in a room with a bad guy.

Or with a good guy.

But he ended up a hundred percent sure he was in a room with a bad guy because Emerson and Alex Rodin were both there together. Reacher was hauled out of the squad car and hustled straight to Emerson’s office. Emerson was behind the desk. Rodin was in front of it.

Can’t say a word , Reacher thought. But this has got to be real fast .

Then he thought: Which one? Rodin? Or Emerson ? Rodin was wearing a suit. Blue, summer weight, expensive, maybe the same one as on Monday. Emerson was in shirtsleeves. Playing with a pen. Bouncing it off his blotter, one end, then the other.

Get on with it , Reacher thought.

“You weren’t so hard to find,” Emerson said.

Reacher said nothing. He was still handcuffed.

“Tell us about the night Alexandra Dupree was killed,” Rodin said.

Reacher said nothing.

“Tell us how it felt,” Emerson said. “When her neck snapped.”

Reacher said nothing.

“The jury’s going to hate you,” Rodin said.

Reacher said, “Phone call.”

“You want to lawyer up?” Emerson said.

Reacher said nothing.

“Who’s your lawyer?” Rodin asked.

“Your daughter,” Reacher said.

“Want us to call her?” Emerson asked.

“Maybe. Or maybe Rosemary Barr instead.”