No Plan B (Jack Reacher, #27)(43)
The other Minerva guy said, “Want to tell me what’s going on here?”
The blond kid’s mouth drooped open but he didn’t speak.
The Minerva guy took a pistol from the waistband of his jeans. “This is what you need to understand. I’m a law enforcement officer. I witnessed you attempting to kidnap a minor. I shoot you, I get a medal. So if you have anything close to an innocent explanation, now’s the time.”
The kid didn’t respond.
The Minerva guy checked his watch. There were eight minutes before the next bus was due. Which was annoying. This could be the only action he would see all day. He would have preferred to draw things out a little. Have some fun. Instead he frowned and said, “Show me your phone.”
The kid didn’t move.
The Minerva guy pressed the muzzle of his gun against the kid’s sternum. He reached into the kid’s pocket and helped himself to the phone. He glanced at it and said, “Passcode?”
The kid stayed silent.
The Minerva guy said, “OK. This phone’s old. A fingerprint will unlock it. Hold out your hand.”
The kid didn’t move.
The Minerva guy said, “Let’s recap. Passcode, or fingerprint?”
The kid didn’t answer.
“OK,” the Minerva guy said. “I’ll go with your fingerprint. You know your finger doesn’t need to be attached to the rest of you for it to work, right? Or your thumb? Or whatever you used to set it up? Maybe I’ll have to snap off all your fingers, one at a time.”
The kid’s eyes opened wide and he blurted out a string of six numbers. The Minerva guy entered them into the phone then opened its photo library. It was full of pictures of people surfing and drinking beer and hanging out on beaches, plus one shot of someone’s ass. There was nothing that seemed relevant so the guy switched to the phone’s messages app. Straightaway a different picture filled the screen. It was of Jed Starmer. At the Greyhound station in L.A. Taken on Tuesday afternoon. The guy clicked and swiped and saw that the picture had been sent from a California number. There was a note attached to it. A route number. And an arrival time. He handed the phone to his partner, then said to the kid, “How much?”
The kid’s eyes opened even wider. “I haven’t got any money. But I can get some. I’ll pay you whatever you want.”
The Minerva guy slapped the kid in the face. Openhanded, but still hard enough to knock him over sideways, into the gutter. Then the guy reached down, grabbed the kid by the undershirt, and hauled him back onto his feet. “How much will you get for snatching the boy?”
“Oh. Nothing. Nada. Honest.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true.”
“Then why did you snatch him?”
“We had to. We don’t have any choice.”
“Everyone has a choice.”
“We don’t. We’re working it off. There’s a debt we owe.”
“Oh yeah? Who do you owe? What for?”
“A guy we met. He gave us some drugs. A lot of drugs. We were supposed to sell them. But they got stolen. And we didn’t have any money to pay him back.”
“Who’s the guy?”
“I don’t know his real name.”
“Where is he?”
“New Orleans.”
“So now you supply him with runaways?”
The kid looked down and nodded.
The Minerva guy said, “You have someone at the Greyhound station in, where? L.A.?”
The kid said, “He moves around. L.A. San Fran. Austin, Texas, one time.”
“He buddies up to lonely looking boys? Finds out where they’re going? Makes sure no one’s going to miss them?”
The kid nodded.
“How many times?”
“This is the fourth.”
“How many more?”
The kid shrugged. “He said he’d tell us when it was enough.”
The Minerva guy checked his watch again, then pulled a plasticuff from his back pocket. “Turn around. Hands out behind you.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Call 911. You’re looking at a lot of jail time, pal. Hopefully in the place where I work. I’ll make sure you get a real good welcome.”
“No. Wait. Please. Can’t we—”
The guy spun the kid around and secured his wrists. Then he pushed him toward his partner and opened the back door of the car. He said, “We better check the boy’s OK. Make sure you’re not in any more trouble.”
Only he couldn’t check on anyone. Because the back of the car was empty. The opposite door was open. And Jed was gone.
Chapter 25
The same time Jed Starmer was exiting the dusty station wagon, Hannah Hampton and Jack Reacher were leaving Louisiana and entering the state of Mississippi. They were at the midpoint of the Vicksburg Bridge, a hundred feet above the river, on I-20, heading east. As they had been for the last five and a half hours, not including stops for diesel and coffee.
Reacher was driving. He wasn’t thrilled about that. He certainly hadn’t volunteered. Being driven suited his temperament much better. Anyone else on the road who looked into Sam Roth’s truck during the first four hundred miles they covered that day would have said Hannah’s companion was pretty much comatose. He was lying back in his seat, not moving. Except for his eyes, which just flickered open every now and again. And that was only so he could get a fix on their current position. At first their surroundings were flat and featureless with nothing to see apart from an occasional water tower or utilitarian metal shed at the edge of the arrow-straight road. Then a few trees and bushes appeared between the scrubby fields. The land began to gently rise in a few places and fall away in others. After they passed Dallas the sky became a little bluer. The grass, a little greener. The stands of roadside trees thickened up after they crossed into Louisiana. The farmland grew more lush and fertile. Reacher was enjoying the slow motion, magic lantern impression of the landscape as it steadily unspooled outside his window. He would have been happy to file the snapshots away in his memory and save his energy for whatever was waiting for him in Winson. When he would no longer be a passenger. But when Hannah handed him the keys after they stopped at a rest area he figured it would be rude to refuse. And unsafe. There were dark circles under her eyes. Her shoulders were sagging. She struggled to heave the truck’s massive door open against a sudden gust of wind, and she was fast asleep before they made it back onto the highway.