No Plan B (Jack Reacher, #27)(72)

The guy came out of the bathroom and said, “It’s empty. Reacher’s gone. Maybe he was never here.”



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—

Room 114 was a mirror image of 112. Its furnishings were equally gaudy. Its fabric was equally worn. One difference was the quality of its air. Instead of smelling moldy and stale it felt fresh but a little damp. The drapes were pulled aside and the window was open. The Minerva guy—one of the pair from the Greyhound station—picked up on that. He paused just inside the doorway. He was thinking about cockroaches getting in. And wondering if it was a sign that the woman had fled. Or if it was part of a trap. Or if the woman was just a fresh air fiend. He’d had a girlfriend once who swore she couldn’t sleep with the bedroom windows closed.

The guy started to move again. He crept forward. He drew level with the bathroom door. Reacher was waiting inside. He stepped into the doorway and punched the guy in the side of the head. The blow sent him staggering sideways across the entryway. He hit the wall on the far side and his skull left a new dent in the plaster. His arms windmilled around and knocked the hangers off the rail, sending them rattling across the floor.

The guys in room 112 heard the noises. They turned in unison and stared at the connecting wall.

Harold said, “It’s Reacher. He’s next door. With the widow. Get him.”

The guys rushed into the corridor. They ran to the door to 114. And stopped. The door was closed and they didn’t have a key.

Reacher climbed out of the window. He jumped down and landed on a strip of grass at the edge of the parking lot.

The other Minerva guy from the Greyhound station hammered on the door. He got no response.

Reacher hurried across to the window to room 112. It was unlatched. He had seen to that, earlier.

Harold pushed the three guys aside and slammed the door with his palm. The half above the handle flexed an inch but the lock didn’t give way.

Reacher opened the window, hauled himself up, and climbed inside.

Harold stepped back. He lifted his right leg and drove the sole of his foot into the door at the side of the handle. The architrave shattered. The door whipped open. It slammed into the unconscious guy’s feet and bounced back into its place in the ragged frame.

Reacher crossed the room. He opened his door a crack and peered out into the corridor.

Harold barged into his door with his shoulder and shoved the unconscious guy’s legs far enough aside to make a gap he could squeeze through.

Reacher stepped out into the corridor. He said, “Looking for me?”

The nearest guy turned around. The one who’d been driving the BMW in Colorado. Reacher was already moving toward him. He drove the heel of his right hand into the guy’s chin. The guy’s head snapped back. His feet left the ground and he slammed down on his back like a roll of carpet. The next guy in line had to jump to the side and press himself against the wall to avoid getting flattened. It was the guy who had killed Angela St. Vrain. Reacher swiveled at the waist and buried his left fist in his solar plexus. The guy doubled over. He bent at the waist. His body was momentarily horizontal. Reacher brought the side of his right fist down onto the back of his head like a club. The guy’s knees buckled and he collapsed across his buddy’s back in an X shape with his forehead pressed against the wall. The third guy took a glance at what was happening and began to run. Away from Reacher, along the corridor, toward an emergency exit at the far end. Reacher hurdled the tangled bodies and chased after him. But the Minerva guy was lighter. He was faster. And he was desperate. There was nothing Reacher could do. It was a race he had no chance of winning.



* * *



—

A door on the right-hand side of the corridor swung open. The last but one. Room 121. Hannah stepped out. She turned to face the running guy. Her feet were apart, planted securely on the ground. She was holding her SIG out in front, steadily, in a two-handed grip.

She said, “Stop.” The tone of her voice made it clear she was serious.

The guy slowed, raised his hands, and stopped. Then he lunged for the gun. Hannah pulled it aside, out of his reach. She kicked him in the crotch. Hard. He doubled over. He was gagging. A scream was cut off in his throat. Hannah kneed him in the face. He fell back. He was sprawling and struggling, but still moving. For another split second. Then Reacher caught up and kicked him in the head.

Hannah switched the gun to her right hand, crouched down, and checked the guy’s neck for a pulse. There was a sound from down the corridor. It was Harold. He had wrestled the door to room 114 open again. He stepped out. He was so broad he seemed to fill the entire space between the walls. Hannah straightened up and stood next to Reacher. For a moment no one spoke.

Harold broke the silence. He said, “Drop the gun, little girl. Let’s talk.”

Hannah raised the gun and switched back to a two-handed grip. She said, “No. And let’s not.”

Harold took a long step forward.

Hannah said, “Stop.”

Harold’s face twisted into a mean, cruel grin. He took another step.

Hannah said, “I’m not kidding. Stop.”

Harold took another step.

Hannah took a breath, held it, aimed at Harold’s center mass, and pulled her trigger. The noise was devastating. The spent cartridge hit the wall and fizzed down onto the carpet by Reacher’s foot. Harold staggered back. He fell. And lay still.