Lee Child - Night School

Reacher looked back. There were maybe fifty guys working. They were suited up like football players, in high-visibility overalls, and hard hats and ear defenders, with plastic cups over their knees and elbows, like the airport workers. Most were putting their time in. A couple were standing and staring. Unsure. Reacher waved. They waved back, and turned away. An old lesson. Act like you belong there . Like you just bought half the company. Meet the new boss.

Reacher turned back. Fifty yards ahead Hooper had pulled over. He was waiting. Orozco arrived at Reacher’s elbow. Then Neagley. They had to talk loud, because of the noise. Orozco said, “Either it’s hidden behind the boxes or it ain’t here at all.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“Argument against would be that’s a lot of boxes to stack on a moment’s notice.”

“I think they’re permanent,” Neagley said. “I think the office must be back there. I don’t see it anyplace else. They walled themselves off. Peace, quiet, and parking spaces.”

They walked closer. The smell was intense. Like walking through a department store. The mountain range of boxes was set end-on to the last-but-one roll-up door, blocking it completely. Which meant the very last roll-up door was the office staff’s private driveway. Just like the army.

They detoured to door number forty-seven, to see how it worked. The good news was it had manual override. An up button and a down button. Both plastic, both brightly colored, both the size of a saucer. Like my first magic mushrooms. The bad news was they were on a panel on the left of the door. The far side of the lane. The rear corner of the commandeered space.

Orozco said, “It could be parked facing out. Like a fire engine. It could be out of here in a second. If it moves, shoot the tires.”

Reacher said, “If it moves, shoot the driver. The Davy Crocketts are about two feet tall. Head shots should be safe enough.”

“If it’s there.”

Reacher remembered Sinclair’s hand on his chest. A stop sign. But no. An assessment, and then a conclusion. Not remotely trust, or even confidence, or much interest, but a solid gamble. He was worth taking a chance on.

“Yes,” he said. “If it’s there.”

It was there. Reacher peered around the last corner of the mountain range, one eye only, and he saw the panel van, no longer white, now daubed with imitation graffiti, with balloon-like letters, W and H, and S and L. It was facing out. Its rear door was up. Inside were stout canvas packs, covered with straps, padded and round, in camouflage colors that were still dark and strong. They had never seen the light of day.

To the left of the truck was a wall of windows, into a large but empty office room. To the right was the back face of the mountain range. Maybe three feet of space either side of the truck. Not cramped at all. Up close the area felt generous.

There were no people in sight. No guards.

Reacher pulled back and checked the other way. Another two workers were standing and staring. He stepped back to where Orozco and Neagley were waiting. Hooper was there. He told them the news. They took a look for themselves, one at a time, one eye only. Orozco stepped back and said, “The office suite must be two rooms deep. They must be in the rear section.”

Reacher said, “Or they went out to get pizza and a pitcher of beer. Why stand guard over a bunch of tin cans? They don’t know what they got.”

“First priority is the panel van. Not the personnel.”

“Agreed,” Reacher said.

“So let’s go steal it back. Right now. We have a key. Like boosting it off the curb while the owner is inside watching the ball game.”

Reacher nodded. One time he had rotated through an army fight school, where the toughest instructor liked to say the best fights are the fights you don’t have. No risk of defeat, no risk of injury. However slight or unlikely. Plus in this case a political dimension. If the van just disappeared, who could say it ever existed? Deniability was always useful. It would fit the narrative. What crate?

Clearly the noisiest element would be raising the warehouse door. It was driven by an electric motor, through chains. Long and slow. It would need to open all the way. It was a high-roof van. Thirty seconds, probably. Grinding, rattling, shuffling upward. A very characteristic sound. Like putting a notice in the newspaper. They would come running at once.

Better to back it out. The other way. Reverse it carefully, deep toward the center of the shed, as far as possible, and then swing it around and escape through the body of the warehouse. Through the nearest of the open doors. The same way Hooper drove in.

Now seventy yards away four workers were standing and staring.

Reacher said, “OK, let’s do it. Who wants to drive?”

Neagley said, “I will.”

“If they hear the engine they’ll approach on your side. So you’ll need cover. But not from the passenger seat. You could get shot in the face. I’ll walk on the blind side. When you stop reversing I’ll jump in and you can take off forward. Then Hooper and Orozco can tuck in behind.”

“I plan on reversing faster than you can walk. They’re paratrooper weapons. They can stand a little slamming around. Sit in the passenger seat. Just don’t do the part where you shoot me in the face. It’s not complicated.”

Reacher glanced the other way. Still four workers watching.

“Brisk,” he said. “Not crazy. Make it look like regular business. It drove in, and now it’s driving out again.”

He peered around the corner, one last time. Both eyes. The windows, blank. The truck, waiting. Nothing else. No people.

Now there were six workers watching. They had moved up a step, into a loose arrowhead. The nearest guy was sixty yards away. Isolated by distance and noise, but staring.

Reacher gave Neagley the key.

He said, “Go for it.”

Orozco and Hooper drifted back toward their blue Opel. They got in and moved it to where they could see into the hidden bay, obliquely, for mission support, but where they wouldn’t impede Neagley’s rearward progress. They left space for her to back up alongside them. Then she would pull forward on full lock, and turn tight in front of them, and drive away. They would fall in close behind, on the same curve.

Neagley checked the view, and took a breath, and stepped into the hidden bay. Reacher followed. She walked down the blind side of the van to the passenger door. He paused near the tailgate. He watched the office windows. She tried the passenger door. It was unlocked. She opened it wide and climbed across to the driver’s seat. He stretched up tall and caught the strap and inched the rear door down. They’re paratrooper weapons. They can stand a little slamming around . Maybe so. But he didn’t want them spilling out during a violent maneuver. He didn’t want them rolling and bouncing across a Hamburg street corner.

He tugged on the strap and the door came down quiet and slow and easy, whirring and spooling on nylon bearings. A foot. A foot and a half. Two feet.

He stopped.

Shit .

He caught Neagley’s eye in the mirror and chopped his hand across his throat.

Abort .

Now .

She climbed out over the passenger seat. Out the passenger door. Along the painted flank. She followed him back to safety.

Orozco and Hooper came back from their car.

In the other direction a dozen workers were watching. A whole regular crowd. Still a shambling arrowhead. Fifty yards away. Shuffling closer.

Neagley said, “What happened?”

“Should be ten bombs in the truck,” Reacher said. “But I only counted nine.”

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