No Plan B (Jack Reacher, #27)(41)

The guy wriggled and bounced and tried to fling the gel away from his body. It was heavy, like glue. A little came off but the bulk remained stubbornly attached.

Emerson took a box of matches from his pocket. “So. Tell me. Where does your organization get its inventory from?”

The guy stopped moving. He was struggling for breath. “We have a few sources. We get different things from different places.”

“Start with what you got for my son. Where did it come from?”

“I don’t know. Honestly. I only have a contact. I tell him what we need. If he can get it, he does. I don’t know who he works for. That’s the way the system is set up. For security. Just like he doesn’t know who I work for.”

“His name?”

“Carpenter. That’s what he told me. It might not be his real name.”

“Contact information?”

“It’s in my phone. I’ll give it to you. But listen. This is the truth. Four weeks ago Carpenter dropped out of sight. He might have quit. The FBI might have gotten to him. I don’t know. But if you can’t reach him, don’t think I was lying to you.”

Graeber picked the guy’s pants up off the floor and pulled a phone out of one of the pockets. He said, “Passcode?”

The guy reeled off a series of numbers.

Graeber hit a few keys then said, “Carpenter? You have a picture of him. Is this a joke?”

The guy said, “He didn’t know. It was in case I ever needed leverage. It’s redundant now, anyway.”

Emerson said, “Who cares about a picture if the guy’s disappeared? How do we get around him?”

The guy said, “You can’t. He was my only contact.”

“So how are you placing your orders?”

“We’re not. We can’t. Not until a replacement gets in touch. We’re using alternative suppliers right now.”

“How did you pay Carpenter?”

“Cash, at first. Recently, bitcoin. It’s untraceable.”

“Who collects the merchandise? Where from?”

The guy missed a beat. “I don’t know where from.”

“So you do know who.”

The guy didn’t answer.

Emerson took a match out of the box.

“OK! We use a transport guy. Out of Vicksburg, Mississippi. His name’s Lafferty. He’s a one-man band. A specialist.”

“Address?”

“In my phone.”

“Good. Now, is there anything else you want to tell us?”

“No. Nothing. I’ve told you everything. More than I should have done. So please, let me go.”

“First things first. The shipment that went to my son. You arranged that? You were a link in that chain?”

The guy closed his eyes and nodded. Just a very slight motion.

Emerson said, “Let me hear it.”

The guy opened his eyes again and said, “Yes. I arranged it. Can I go now? If it’s a refund you want, I can make that happen. I’m the only one who can.”

Emerson took a ladleful of gel and poured it on the guy’s stomach. He took another and poured it on his chest. Graeber put the lid back on the barrel and rolled it to the exit. Then Emerson struck a match.

“A refund?” Emerson said. “No. But you can go. Like my son had to go when you were done with him. Only you get to go quicker. And with maybe a little more pain.”



* * *



—

The Greyhound bus Jed Starmer was riding reached the depot in Jackson, Mississippi, at a little after 1:15 p.m., Thursday. That was more than forty hours after he left L.A. Four people watched it arrive. Two of them were waiting for that bus, specifically. The other two were keeping an eye on everything that came in from the west.

The second pair normally worked at the Minerva facility in Winson. They had been at the station since 3:00 a.m. On a special assignment. They were bored. They were tired. And they were suspicious. Of the other two guys. Their attention had been drawn to them the moment they walked onto the covered concourse. They were young. Late teens, or early twenties at the most. They were wearing bright, short-sleeved shirts, unbuttoned, over dirty white undershirts. They had shorts on. No socks. One had sandals. The other had tennis shoes, old and creased, with no laces. Both had long, messed up, crusty hair. One was blond. The other, dark. Neither had shaved recently. Neither was a picture of respectability. That was for sure. But it was their body language that was the real red flag. Their constant fidgeting. The tension in their arms and legs and necks that they couldn’t quite suppress.

Corrections officers live or die by their instincts. Their ability to spot trouble before it happens. There’s no alternative given that there are times when they’re outnumbered two hundred to one. Things can go south fast. Once they start, there’s no stopping them. Not without blood getting spilled. So if the Minerva guys had been on duty at the prison and the scruffy kids had been inmates they would have moved on them immediately. No hesitation. They’d have tossed them back in their cells and kept them locked away until they uncovered whatever it was they were up to. However long it took. But out there, in the free world, there was nothing the Minerva guys could do.

Except watch.

Every couple of minutes the blond kid pulled out his phone and stared at its screen.