Better off Dead (Jack Reacher #26)(11)

When the emergency operator came on the line I gave him the coordinates and told him I had seen two guys shoot each other during an argument. Then I wiped the phone clean of prints and tossed it away.

I asked Fenton, “Is your Jeep wrecked?”

“No. I didn’t touch the tree. See for yourself.”

I walked around to the front of her Jeep and looked. There was maybe room to slide a cigarette paper between the fender and the tree trunk, but no more. She must be one hell of a driver.

I said, “Good. We’ll take yours. Leave the other one here.”

“Why? An extra vehicle might be useful.”

“True.” The tainted Jeep certainly could be useful. As another juicy morsel for the forensic guys to get their teeth into. Not as transport. “But it’s too big a risk. Dendoncker is bound to freak out when he doesn’t hear from his guys. He’ll send a search party. If either of us was seen with their Jeep, that would screw things up big-time.”

    “I guess.”

I retrieved the guys’ guns, plus a baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses. “I doubt the cavalry will arrive any time soon. But we should still get out of here.”

“Where to?”

“Somewhere private. We have a lot to talk about.”

“OK.” Fenton made her way around to the driver’s side of her Jeep and flipped up the windshield. “My hotel.” She fired up the engine and shifted into Reverse, then sat with one foot on the brake and the other pressing down on the clutch. Both her hands were on the wheel. At the top. Pressed together at the twelve o’clock position. She was hanging on tight. Her knuckles were white. Veins and tendons began to bulge. She closed her eyes. Her chest heaved, like she was having trouble catching her breath. Then she regained control. Slowly. She relaxed her grip. She opened her eyes, which dislodged a couple of tears. “Sorry.” She brushed her cheeks then switched her right foot to the gas pedal and raised the clutch. “I was thinking of Michael. I can’t believe he’s gone.”





Chapter 7


Fenton pushed the Jeep hard. The aged suspension creaked and squealed. The motor rattled. The transmission howled. Clouds of dark smoke spewed out of the tailpipe. She worked constantly at the wheel, sawing back and forth, but she still struggled to keep us going straight. I tried to focus on the road ahead but after ten minutes she caught me glancing down at her right foot.

“IED,” she said. “Afghanistan.”

She meant Improvised Explosive Device. It was a term I objected to. It had become prevalent during the second Gulf War. Probably coined by some government PR guy to make the insurgents’ weapons sound low-tech. Unsophisticated. Like they were nothing to worry about. To conjure the image of them being cobbled together by unskilled rubes in caves and cellars. Whereas the truth was the opposite. I knew. I was in a compound in Beirut, years ago, when a dump truck loaded with twelve thousand pounds of explosives burst through the barracks’ gates. Two hundred forty-one US Marines and sailors died that day. Fifty-eight French paratroopers were killed in another attack nearby. And since then things have only gotten worse. The bomb makers now have access to complex electronics. Remote detonators. Infrared triggers. Proximity sensors. They’ve become experts in positioning. Concealment. And they’ve become even nastier. More ruthless. As well as nails and metal fragments designed to tear human flesh they routinely load their devices with bacterial agents and anticoagulants. Then even if their victims survive the initial blast they’re still likely to bleed out or die of some hideous disease.

    I pushed those thoughts aside and asked her, “Army?”

She nodded. “Sixty-sixth Military Intelligence Group. Out of Wiesbaden, Germany. But this didn’t happen while I was in uniform. There was no Purple Heart for me.”

“You joined a private contractor?”

She shook her head. “Not me. I have no time for those guys. Call me crazy but I don’t think wars should be fought for profit.”

“What, then? Not many civilians go to Afghanistan.”

“I did. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you some other time. Meanwhile, what about you? What brings you from the Military Police to this particular place? On foot? Of all the roads in all the towns…”

“Also a long story.”

“Touché. So I’m going to come straight out and ask you. Are you on the run? Are you some kind of fugitive?”

I thought about her question for a moment. About the last town I’d been to. It was in Texas. I’d left the previous morning. In a hurry. I ran into a little trouble there. It had resulted in a fire. A destroyed building. And three dead bodies. But no major risk of blowback. Nothing she needed to know about.

I said, “No. I’m not a fugitive.”

    “Because if you are, no judgment. Not after what you saw me do today. But stopping Dendoncker is important to me. It’s all I have right now. And if we’re going to do it, there are going to be risks. We have to trust each other. So I have to know. Why are you here?”

“No special reason. I’m on my way out west. A guy was giving me a ride. He had to turn around and go back east, so I got out.”

“Got out? Or got kicked out?”

“Got out.”

“In such a hurry you forgot to grab your luggage? Come on. What really happened?”