No Plan B (Jack Reacher, #27)(45)

The guy with the gun shook his head and gestured for Reacher to move first. Reacher started toward the exit. Hannah followed. Then the guy fell in behind them, alongside his partner, and gave directions to the rear of the building. They passed between the long outside wall of the store and a parking area for buses. Eleven vehicles were lined up in their oversized bays but there were no passengers milling around. No drivers. The building was at the edge of the site so there was nothing behind it. No road. No parked cars. No people. Just a strip of cracked pavement between the wall and a fence. The fence was made out of broad wooden slats. It was solid. There were no gaps. No knot holes. It was ten feet high. No one could see over it. No one could see through it. There were no windows on that side of the building. There were no doors. So there were no security cameras. And the walls of the food court and the store angled outward from the bathroom block. That left a trapezoid-shaped area that was totally secluded. No one would see what happened there. No one would call 911. No one would give statements to the police. No one would ever testify in court.

Reacher could see what was coming next. He knew one of the guys behind him was armed. It was safe to assume the other guy would be, too. So they would try to back him and Hannah up against the bathroom wall. That was clear. Then all the guys would have to do was stay back, and stay awake. Their plan could be to shoot Hannah. Or Reacher. Or both. To kill them. Immobilize them. Or just hold them until reinforcements arrived. But whatever the intention, it would be game over, right there.

Reacher took a half step to his right then stopped dead. Hannah was alongside him before she realized he wasn’t moving anymore. She stopped, too. Reacher leaned down and whispered, “Stay behind me. Don’t let the guy get a clear shot at you.”

Hannah whispered back, “Which guy? There are two of them.”

Reacher said, “Not for long.”



* * *



—

Reacher heard a voice from behind him. It was the guy who’d been giving the directions. The one who was definitely armed. He said, “Keep going. No one told you to stand still.”

The guy was close. Closer than when they left the building. Reacher could tell from the sound of his voice. The guy must have taken a couple of extra steps after Reacher stopped, just like Hannah had done. Reacher gauged the distance between them. He pictured the guy’s height. Subtracted a couple of inches. Shifted his weight onto the ball of his left foot. Then threw himself backward. He snapped into a fast, clockwise turn, twisting at the waist to add momentum and extending his right arm. He clenched his fist. It traced a wide arc like the head of a sledgehammer. One wielded by a 250-pound maniac. The guy saw the danger. He started to duck. He fumbled for his gun. But he was too slow. The side of Reacher’s fist slammed into his temple and felled him like a dead tree in a hurricane.

The second guy jumped back. He lifted his shirt and scrabbled for his own gun. Another Beretta. Reacher matched his movement. He stepped in close, stretched out his left hand, and pinned the guy’s wrist against his abdomen. He took the guy’s weapon. Then shoved him in the chest and sent him staggering away, too far to try to snatch the gun back.

Reacher said, “Your friend took my picture. Why?”

The guy didn’t answer.

Reacher said, “You wanted to finish the conversation outside. We’re outside. So converse.”

The guy shook his head.

Reacher raised the gun. “Try this instead. You picked this particular spot. No witnesses. No cameras. Why was that?”

The guy held out his hands, palms up. “I don’t know anything. If you’re going to shoot me, just get it over with.”

“You’re wrong,” Reacher said. “You do know some things. You know my name.”

“Oh. Yeah. OK.”

“You know you were sent out here to look for me.”

“I guess.”

“So you know who sent you.”

The guy shook his head.

“You know. Who was it?”

The guy didn’t answer.

Reacher prodded the body on the ground with his toe.

The guy closed his eyes for a moment. “Our boss sent us.”

“Name?”

“Mr. Brockman.”

“Organization?”

“Minerva Correctional.”

“You work at the prison in Winson?”

The guy nodded.

Reacher said, “How did Brockman know I’d be here?”

“He didn’t. He sent guys to a bunch of places. Just in case.”

“How many guys?”

“I don’t know. Eight? Ten? It wasn’t like a regular team briefing. We got given our orders in pairs. Word filtered out between us later.”

“Which places?”

“I only know one place for sure. The Greyhound station in Jackson. One of the guys who got sent there is my brother-in-law. He called me. A few minutes ago. They just caught a couple of punks trying to kidnap a homeless kid who’d come in from California. Said he wanted to see if we were having any fun like that. Which was horseshit. Really he wanted to break my balls because he knew we would be totally bored.”

“Guess his call was a little premature. What were you supposed to do if you saw me?”

“Verify your ID.”

“And then?”