No Plan B (Jack Reacher, #27)(39)

Jed shrugged. “The whole roll, I guess.”

“You put what you didn’t spend in your pocket?”

“Right.”

“Did anyone see which pocket you put it in?”

“I don’t know. Probably. The bus station was pretty busy.”

“Did anyone come close to you? Bump into you? Come into contact in any other way?”

“No. Wait. Yes. The guy who found my ticket. I dropped it and…oh.”

“Oh is right. So. This guy. Did you talk to him? Did he ask you any questions?”

“We chatted a little, I guess. He said he was getting on my bus. But then he didn’t. Now I know why.”

“Did you tell him where you were going?”

“Not exactly. I was pretty vague. Why?”

“Doesn’t matter. Now, come on. Eat. Before this mess goes cold.”



* * *



—

The other guy cleared his plate then waited for Jed to catch up.

He said, “Good. Now we should get you to the hospital. Get you checked out. You whacked your head pretty good when you fell.”

“No.” Jed checked his watch. “No time. My next bus goes in ten minutes. And anyway, I’m fine.”

“You should call 911, at least. Report the guy in L.A.”

Jed shook his head.

“You need to report him. To stop him from ripping anyone else off.”

“There’s no point. It’s too late. He’ll be long gone.”

“You’re scared to call the police, aren’t you? You’re trying to avoid them. How come?”

“I’m not scared. I’m just short of time.”

“You’re in some kind of trouble.”

“I told you. I’m not.”

“Then what’s the problem? Are you a runaway? Is that it?”

Jed shook his head again. “No. I’m not running away from anything. I’m just…relocating.”

“Really? Where to? How? Where’s your stuff? What are you going to do when you get there?”

“I don’t know.” Those were good questions, Jed thought. Although only two things really mattered. Where he was going to sleep that night after he got off the bus. And how he was going to finish his journey the next morning. The same two problems he’d faced all along. They were a little more difficult now that he had no money. But he would figure something out. There were people sleeping on the seats near him. He wasn’t thrilled at the idea, but he could do the same at the depot in Jackson. It wouldn’t kill him for one night. Then he remembered the sign he had seen outside. For the prison shuttle. If they had those in Texas, surely there would be something similar in Mississippi. That could be his salvation. If he could somehow persuade the driver to let him get on board. He looked up and tried to smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll be OK.”

“Well, good luck. You’re a brave kid.” The guy looked at Jed for a moment then pulled two ten-dollar bills out of his pocket and slid them across the table. “Here. This is all I can spare. Take it. Just don’t let anyone steal it from you this time.”



* * *



—

Hannah Hampton’s phone guided them due south until they passed Amarillo, then the highway shifted a little to the east. They would head diagonally across the state until they got to Dallas, Reacher figured. Then it would be a straight shot all the way to Mississippi. A few more stops for diesel and coffee. A few more hours to play music in his head. Unless Hannah decided she wanted to talk again. Either way was fine with him. He tipped his seat back a little farther, closed his eyes, and settled in for the ride. There wasn’t much he could do while they were on the road. But when they got to their destination, he was pretty sure that was going to change. And that was also fine with him.



* * *



—

Lev Emerson’s contact had picked a coffee shop in St. Louis, Missouri, for their meeting. The same city as their first rendezvous. A different venue. But the same line of thinking. Somewhere public. Noisy. Hard for anyone to eavesdrop or to record their conversation. And hard for Emerson to do the guy any physical harm without being seen by dozens of witnesses. The guy was cautious. That was clear. But he had overlooked one detail. Last time they met, Emerson didn’t know what the guy looked like. He had no option but to wait for him inside, as agreed. But recognizing him was no longer a problem. Which is why Emerson decided to ambush him outside.

When you work with the range of chemicals involved in Emerson’s line of business, getting your hands on a little chloroform is child’s play. Before he left Chicago Emerson soaked a rag with the stuff and stowed it in a Ziploc bag. He timed the drive so that he and Graeber arrived at the strip mall where the coffee shop was located an hour early. He parked right by the entrance to the parking lot. Watched every car that pulled in. Spotted his contact roll up in a silver Mercedes. Backed out and followed the guy to the other side of the lot. Reversed into the space next to his, passenger side facing him. Graeber jumped out. He was holding a dog-eared road atlas. He stopped the guy and asked him for directions to an industrial park on the outskirts of the city. Emerson slipped out on the other side. He was holding the rag. He looped around the back of the van. Opened one of the doors. Stepped up behind the guy. Clamped the rag over his nose and mouth. And took the guy’s weight as he sagged so that he didn’t hit the ground. Graeber squeezed between them. He climbed into the van’s cargo space. Emerson humped the guy’s unconscious body around to the doorway. Graeber grabbed it by the shoulders. Emerson took its ankles. Together they dragged the guy inside. Then Emerson slammed the door and took a quick glance around the parking lot. The whole operation had taken nine seconds. No one had seen a thing.