Lee Child - The Midnight Line

Deserted.

“What time is it?” Sanderson asked.

“Ten o’clock,” Reacher said. “Two hours to go.”

“Is this going to work?”

“It looks right. It’s what the voicemail said. There’s a service road leading to a covered garage.”

“That was then. They might have a different place for tonight.”

“As good as this? I doubt it. This place is solid gold.”

“There’s no sign of life.”

“Not yet. I think that’s the point. They get in and out real fast. It’s a totally hidden location. Who pays attention to these places? Someone drives in here, they’re invisible.”

He turned and looked back. The truck from Jersey would come in from the east, the same way they had walked. Then it would loop around the garage and head back the other direction, for the empty run home. Stackley would have headed west. The other guys like him could have headed either way. It was a secret rendezvous and a hidden highway interchange all in one. Solid gold.

They walked up to where they thought Bramall and Mackenzie would come through the trees, and found them just arriving. They did the tour again.

Mackenzie said, “Obviously I’m not the person to ask how we play this.”

Sanderson said, “Operationally the soundest plan would be ambush the incoming vehicle halfway along the service road. After it leaves the highway but before it gets to the garage. One operation, maximum one round fired, maximum one enemy killed. Focused and efficient.”

“How would we ambush the vehicle?”

“I don’t know if we should.”

“I don’t follow.”

Reacher said, “We don’t know what kind of vehicle it is. But it came out the factory gate, so it’s probably an official pharmaceutical truck. I’m sure the Boy Detective discussed the matter with them. Lots of meetings and memos. The truck is probably locked. Maybe only the driver can open it. A combination or a special key. Your sister doesn’t want to run the risk of having to beat it out of him.”

“Would you?”

“The guy already took money to deliver to the wrong address. Clearly he’s open to a negotiation. Fair exchange is no robbery.”

“So which?”

Bramall said, “There could be ten or twelve guys picking up here. To get what they got we would have to rob them all, one by one. On their way out of here. Like the ticket booth in a parking lot. Twelve robberies, one after the other. Maybe a minute apart. I don’t think we could do it. We have no choice.”

“Rose?”

“Like I said, the ambush chooses itself. Let’s hope the truck is not locked.”

“There’s a third way,” Reacher said. “The best of both worlds.”

Chapter 45

Nakamura returned to the rest area, because she ran out of options. It was a bad location, but maybe better than anywhere else. She pictured a panel van, shiny white. Where would it park, to conduct its business? As far away as possible, surely. Which meant somewhere on the far edges of the lot. Late in the evening there were many empty rows. Folks liked to park as close as possible to the buildings. Why not? Why give themselves an extra walk?

She cruised by, in her pale blue car. She was right. The western edge of the lot was completely deserted. Row after empty row. The eastern edge had just one lone car. It was parked with its grille tight up against the trees.

It was a black SUV, with a blue license plate.

Illinois.

She dialed her phone.

She said, “Expedite a request for an out-of-state plate.”

In reply she got a burst of static and a verbal OK.

She read out the number. She kept the phone to her ear, and parked next to the black SUV. It was a Toyota. She got out and checked it over. It was dusty. It had done some miles out west. It was hard to see inside, because the windows were high and she was short. But it looked like folk were traveling. There were bags in the trunk. But why park there?

She looked ahead at the trees and concluded a person could walk through them. But what for? Illicit activity was safe enough in the last row of the parking lot. No one needed to hide out in the woods. There was nothing on the other side, until eventually the trees thinned out and the regular median started up again. Technically a person could walk from there to the next rest area with grass under his feet all the way. Or was there a highway department maintenance depot in the way? She couldn’t remember. There was one somewhere. They were the kind of places you never really paid attention to.

There was static in her ear, and a voice on her phone.

It said, “Illinois DMV lists that plate as a black Toyota Land Cruiser, registered to Terrence Bramall, at a Chicago business address. He describes himself as a private detective.”

—

Sanderson walked to her starting position, and Reacher went with her. He wanted to know she was still chewing. Or if not, whether that was a good thing or bad. She was still chewing. Doing OK. He hoped she wasn’t peaking too early. She had the Ruger Standard. The .22. Two rounds in it. It was all she would take. Bramall had the Colt .45. Three rounds in it. Mackenzie had the empty Springfield. Better than nothing. Like the man said, ninety percent of everything was striking a pose.

Reacher said, “Get the story ready for me.”

Sanderson said, “A hundred things could go wrong.”

“Not a hundred,” he said. “Couple dozen, maybe.”

“The arrest warrant was bullshit. I want you to know that, whatever. They were trying to shut him up.”

“You want me to know part of the story, but not all of it?”

“I want you to know that part at least.”

“What was he trying to say?”

“Something he shouldn’t.”

“OK,” Reacher said. “Stay on the ball and tell me the rest later. You doing OK?”

“So far.”

“Good until when?”

“What time is it now?”

“Close to ten-thirty.”

She did the math in her head, and she didn’t answer.

Reacher walked back to his own starting position. But before he got there Bramall walked up with his phone, which was glowing green, with what was apparently a call in progress with the West Point Superintendent’s Office.

“For you,” Bramall said.

Reacher took the phone.

He said, “General.”

The supe said, “Major.”

“We’re currently maneuvering. Success or failure within two hours from now.”

“Do I want to know the details?”

“Probably not.”

“What are your chances?”

“Uncertain. It’s a rules of engagement issue.”

“She got more scruples than you?”

“She could hardly have fewer. But there are things I won’t do. And we have civilians with us.”

“Welcome to the modern army. You could come back and take a class.”

“She told me Porterfield’s arrest warrant was bullshit.”

“What was your reaction to that?”

“She would say that, wouldn’t she.”

“Mine, too. But she appears to be right. My friends to the south got into the file, and there’s nothing in it. It has to be phony. No one knows the guy who swore it out. We looked him up, and the only match on the name was a guy in the press office in a Marine Corps medical battalion.”

“The way she talks, I think she feels Porterfield had some kind of a just cause going on. In which case there must be a lot of files. He was an unemployed veteran who had to change a dressing every day. If a guy like that gets a bug up his ass he tells everyone about it. He writes letters to the newspaper and calls his congressman every day. And then the White House and the talk shows and every law enforcement agency he can think of. His name must crop up everywhere. I want to know. She might never tell me.”