No Plan B (Jack Reacher, #27)(44)

Another bridge spanned the river a stone’s throw away to the north. An older one. It was all solid piles and cantilevered girders with giant rivets and flags flying from the highest points. Reacher recognized it. He had been shown pictures of it, and the river flowing beneath it, when he was a kid in a classroom on a military base on the other side of the world. Before the bridge they were crossing that day was even built. But not in a lesson about engineering, or geography. The idea was that the children were supposed to chant one Mississippi, two Mississippi to help them measure out the seconds. Reacher couldn’t understand why. Even at that young age he was able to keep track of time in his head. So he ignored the official topic and focused on the bridge. It looked solid. Purposeful. Dependable. The way a properly designed structure should be. It only carried trains now. And it was a little worse for wear. Its paint was peeling. Its iron skeleton was streaked with rust. But it was still standing. Still functional. It had once been revered. Now it was surplus to requirements. That was a story Reacher knew well.

A hundred yards beyond the end of the bridge Reacher saw a sign for a truck stop. It claimed to be the largest in Mississippi. Reacher hoped that was true. And he hoped it reflected the scope of the facilities, not just the size of the parking lot. It was time for him to get a change of clothes and none of the previous places they visited had any in his size.

Hannah woke up when Reacher switched off the engine. The sleep had left her feeling brighter so they walked across the parking lot together, toward the main building. It was shaped like a bow tie. The entrance led into a square, central section that contained the restrooms, and showers for the truck drivers. The triangular area on the left was set up as a food court, with chairs and tables clustered in the center and three different outlets spread out around the edges. There was a pizza restaurant on one of the angled sides. A place selling fried chicken on the other. And a burger joint that took up the whole of the base. The store filled the entire area to the right, with shelves and racks and display cases scattered about in no discernible order.

Hannah went through the doors first and started toward the bathrooms but Reacher took her elbow and steered her into the store.

Hannah said, “What, you can’t pick out a pair of pants on your own?”

Reacher checked over his shoulder and said, “You have a phone?”

“Of course. You want to call someone?”

“Does it take pictures?”

“Of course. All phones do these days.”

“Do you hold it up to your eye, like a camera?”

Hannah laughed. “You hold it out in front. You see the image on the whole screen. Much better than a tiny viewfinder. Why?”

“There’s a guy by the counter of the chicken place. He’s lurking around like he’s waiting for an order to come out. But he was actually watching the entrance. And he did something with his phone. He held it out in front and moved it, like he was tracking me with it when we came in.”

“Move your arm to the side, just an inch?” Hannah peered through the gap between Reacher’s biceps and his torso. “White guy, buzzed hair, T-shirt, jeans?”

Reacher nodded.

“He’s still there. Another guy’s with him. They look like gym buddies. He still has his phone in his hand. He keeps staring at it, like he’s waiting for a message. Maybe they’re supposed to be meeting someone? Who’s running late for some reason and hasn’t gotten in touch to let them know?”

Reacher shook his head. “He didn’t raise the phone until he saw me. Then he pointed it right at me.”

“Are you sure? You really think he took your picture? Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know.” Reacher turned around. “Let’s ask him.”



* * *



—

Reacher walked up to the guy with the phone and said, “Next time, call my agent.”

Wrinkles creased the guy’s forehead. He said, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You want to take my picture, you need permission.”

The guy couldn’t help glancing down at his phone. “I didn’t take your picture.”

“I think you did.”

“OK, smart-ass. So what if I—” The guy’s phone made a sound like someone tapping a wineglass with the blunt edge of a knife. He checked its screen. Nodded to his buddy. Then he lifted the hem of his shirt a couple of inches. A black pistol was tucked into his jeans. A Beretta. It wasn’t new. The hatching on its grip was scuffed and worn. “All right, Mr. Reacher. Enough of this bullshit. Let’s finish this conversation outside.”

The implied threat with the gun was ridiculous. It might as well have been a piece of lettuce. There was no way the guy was about to start shooting. Not there. Not with all the security cameras that were watching him. The dozens of witnesses. The likelihood of collateral damage that would buy him a life sentence, or worse, if anyone died. And in any case, if he was stupid enough to try to draw the pistol he would be unconscious before the barrel cleared his waistband. His buddy would be, too. Reacher half hoped the guy would try it. He had energy to burn after all the hours spent cooped up in the truck. But he knew it would be better to wait until they were somewhere more private, so he decided to play along. He stepped back and said, “After you.”