Better off Dead (Jack Reacher #26)(69)

    The pilot went to work on his preflight procedures and once the rotors were whirling and the aircraft was starting to hop on its suspension, eager to get off the ground, I heard his voice through the intercom.

He said, “Sorry about that little show. I needed to make sure those guys will remember me refusing to cross the border. Just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“You getting caught. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’ll attempt a landing, right by the barrier, just like I said I would. But we’ll be in the desert. The wind is unpredictable. At the last minute I’ll get blown off course. To the south. Just a few yards. The thermals happen to be patchy right there so we’ll drop. To about three feet off the ground. Then I’ll recover. Hold position for a couple of seconds. My wheels will never touch Mexican soil. No harm, no foul. But if you, without my prior knowledge or consent, take advantage of the situation and spontaneously jump out of the aircraft, there’ll be nothing I can do about it.”

“Will that work?”

“Of course. It’s the way we always do it.”



* * *



—

Including the walk through the tunnel it took a whisker over twelve hours to get from Dendoncker’s school HQ to the hotel in Big Spring. Including the two-mile walk from the illicit drop zone, it took a shade under five hours to get back. The time in the air was uneventful. The pilot knew what he was doing. He flew fast and smooth and straight. And I dozed as much as the rattling of the fixtures and fittings and the throbbing of the rotors and engines would allow.

    I woke when we plunged down twenty feet. The pilot was something of a Method actor, I guess. That gave me my cue to unstrap my harness, abandon my headset, and haul back the door. The cabin filled with noise. The downdraft almost pulled me out. I couldn’t see the ground. Three feet, the guy had said. The prospect of leaping into the darkness didn’t appeal. However far there was to drop. Then I felt the helicopter begin to rise again. There was no more time. I stepped out. My feet touched the ground. I ducked down. And stayed that way until the roaring and the noise and the wind were no long directly overhead.

The next thing I did was check my phone. There was nothing from Wallwork. They must not have moved the truck.

Not yet.

I took a black hoodie out of my backpack—the first of the things I’d asked Wallwork to get for me—and pulled it on. Partly for concealment. Partly to ward off the chill of the desert night. Then I started to move. Quickly. But carefully. The ground was all sand and grit and gravel. Hard to cross without making a lot of noise. It was dark. And the surface was uneven. It rose and fell at unpredictable intervals and it was studded with holes and channels and cracks. The whole place was a broken ankle waiting to happen. And I didn’t know what kind of company might be out there. Snakes. Scorpions. Spiders. Nothing I was interested in having a close encounter with.

I was coming from the west so the glow of the US half of the town was away to my left. I kept moving until I was as close to the school’s outer fence as I could risk, due to the cameras. The building was dark. Both halves. So were its grounds. Everything was wrapped in shadow except the glass corridor. It was ablaze with light. There was no way to approach it that wasn’t transparent. And no other way into Dendoncker’s side of the building.

    I checked my phone. Nothing from Wallwork.

Not yet.

It was five to two in the morning. Normally I would have preferred to find some shelter and lay up for a couple of hours. Launch my attack at 4:00 a.m. The time the KGB had always used to stage their raids. When people are at their most vulnerable, psychologically. That was their scientific conclusion. Based on a whole lot of data. But that night I didn’t have the luxury of waiting. I couldn’t hold out until every detail was ideal. Two hours was plenty of time for the TEDAC guy to insist on moving the bomb. Plenty of time for Fenton to run out of luck.

I pulled out my phone and called the number in its memory.

The usual guy answered. His voice was thick and heavy with sleep. He just said, “No.”

I said, “I haven’t asked you to do anything yet.”

“You want to speak to the woman. Again.”

“Correct. Put her on.”

“No.”

“Put. Her. On.”

“Are you crazy? It’s the middle of the damn night. Go to sleep. Call back in the morning.”

“Anytime, remember? Has the word been redefined in the last twenty-four hours? Do I need to wake Dendoncker and ask him?”

The guy grunted, then I heard a rustling sound. A bedsheet being flung aside, I guess. Then footsteps. Seven, this time. Not five. Then a door being opened.

I moved forward until I reached the fence. I stopped at the foot of one of the posts with a camera mounted on it and set my backpack down on the ground.

    The guy continued down the corridor. Eight more steps. He opened Fenton’s door and yelled for her to come and take the phone. Her voice came on the line after another minute.

“Reacher? Why aren’t you asleep? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “I need you to do something. It’s very important. In a second I’m going to put the phone down, but I’m not going to hang up. I need you to keep talking like we’re having a regular conversation. I’ll be back in a flash. Can you do that?”