No Plan B (Jack Reacher, #27)(32)

Reacher picked up his pace and after thirty seconds he heard a sound behind him. A truck’s motor. A large diesel, rattling and clattering like a freight train. He looked around and saw a pickup barreling toward him. It was red. It had black glass and lots of chrome. Reacher had seen it before. He stopped walking, stepped to the edge of the road, and let it catch up to him.

The truck braked abruptly to a halt, rocked on its springs for a moment, then the passenger window buzzed down. Hannah Hampton was in the driver’s seat. Her right hand was on the steering wheel. She smiled and looked at Reacher and said, “Open the door.”

Reacher worked the handle and swung the door as far as its hinges allowed it to go.

The smile disappeared from Hannah’s face. She brought her left hand up from the gap between her thigh and the driver’s door. She was holding a gun. A short, squat, black pistol. It was an inch wide with a three-inch barrel. Less than six inches, total length. A SIG P365, Reacher thought. He had never fired one. Never even handled one. The whole subcompact thing had gotten popular after his time in the army was over, fueled by the concealed-carry craze. But he had read about that particular model. He knew it was no joke.

Hannah pointed the gun at the center of Reacher’s chest and said, “Stay there. Stand still.”



* * *



—

A repeat customer. The Holy Grail of any business. Not someone to be questioned or doubted or turned away.

Lev Emerson was counting on the guys he was after to be running their organization like a business. Albeit not a regular one. He didn’t know its name. It didn’t advertise. It didn’t have a logo, as far as he was aware. No website. No bank details for online payments. No app. No social media presence. Just a front man. And a ship. The last, floating resort of the desperate. The place people had to go when they couldn’t get what they needed anywhere else.

Emerson had paid the front man in cash the last time he had gotten involved. The only time. To get his son, Kyle, onto the ship. Kyle had certainly been desperate. But he hadn’t got what he needed. He got something that killed him, instead.

Emerson had paid a lot of cash, the last time. It was a mistake he wouldn’t make again. Any kind of further involvement with these guys would be a mistake. But if the front man took the bait, he would be the one making the error. That was for damn sure. Him. The people he worked for. And, most important, the people who supplied them. The ultimate source of the poison that had killed Kyle. Because Emerson didn’t want to just cut off a limb. He wanted to slay the whole beast. To incinerate every cell in its body.

If the front man took the bait.

Emerson took a breath and hit Send. His laptop made a whoosh sound. His message disappeared from its screen. He pictured it as a stream of ones and zeros, bouncing around the internet. Pinging from one untraceable server to another, all around the world. Maybe reaching its destination. Maybe not. Maybe being read. Maybe not. Maybe convincing the front man. Appealing to his greed. Bypassing any hint of suspicion about why such a recent customer should be getting back in the market.

Or maybe not.



* * *



—

Jack Reacher had lost count of the number of people who had pointed guns at him over the years. Often the person with their finger on the trigger was angry. Sometimes they were scared. Or determined. Or elated. Or relieved. Occasionally they were calm and professional. But Hannah Hampton had an expression on her face that Reacher had never seen in that kind of situation before. She looked embarrassed.

She said, “I’m sorry. Ninety-nine percent of me thinks I’m wrong. That I’m crazy. But I have to know for sure.”

Reacher said, “Know what?”

“Why you showed up at Sam’s door.”

“I told you why.”

“You told me a story. How do I know it’s true?”

“You talked to Detective Harewood. He confirmed it.”

Hannah shook her head. “He confirmed what you were doing. Looking into Angela’s murder. Not why.”

“I’m helping him out.”

“Why?”

“Angela was murdered. So was Sam. Someone should do something about that.”

“Yes. The detective should. It’s his job. And he has the whole police department to back him up. Why does he need your help?”

“He’s facing some…institutional obstacles.”

“Such as?”

“That doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is whether you want Sam’s killer to go free. If you don’t, you need to put the gun down.”

“What if it’s not that simple?”

“It is that simple.”

Hannah paused, but she didn’t lower the gun. “Here’s my problem. There’s a little voice at the back of my head and it won’t shut up. It keeps saying, you were the only one who knew Angela was murdered. You were the only one who knew Sam didn’t have a heart attack. You were the only one who suggested Angela sent Sam some secret evidence. You were the only one who went looking for it.”

“That’s why Harewood needs my help.”

“Unless there’s another explanation.”

“There isn’t.”

“If you had found the evidence at Sam’s apartment, or in his mailbox, what would you have done?”