No Plan B (Jack Reacher, #27)(83)

Things livened up a little with just over ten minutes on the clock. Hix had been waffling about percentages and quoting philosophers, one minute waving his arms like he worked in an auction house, the next standing stiff and still like someone was shoving a stick up his ass. Then he stopped talking mid-statistic. An old pickup truck trundled into sight behind the crowd. Six people were perched in its load bed. The driver honked his horn and the nearest spectators moved out of the way. For a moment it looked set to make a run at the barrier. Reacher moved alongside Jed Starmer in case there was trouble. Then the truck stopped. The six guys jumped down. They produced placards that were covered with slogans about justice and profit. One showed a cartoon with Lady Justice’s scales weighed down with dollar bills. A guy raised a bullhorn. He started yelling demands that the prison close. The crowd didn’t like that. The mood turned ugly. Jeering broke out. The protestors were getting shoved and jostled. The security guards ran over to the fence, nightsticks drawn.

Hix jumped down from the stage, microphone in hand, and strode across to the fence. He said, “Stop. Let the people speak.”

The guy with the bullhorn took the microphone. He was silent for a moment, then mumbled his way through a litany of complaints and accusations.

Hix nodded and pulled a series of concerned expressions, then he took the microphone back and the sound immediately became clear and louder. He said, “My young friends, I’m glad you came here today. I’m glad—” Hix locked eyes with Reacher and suddenly he couldn’t find his voice. He stuttered and spluttered for a moment, then tore his gaze away. “I’m glad you care about fairness and humanity. If you were outside another correctional corporation’s facility, there’s a very good chance you’d be right. But here, I’m glad to say, you’re wrong. Minerva cares for the health of those who reside within our walls. Minerva cares for safety. For education. For unlocking potential. And”—Hix turned and dashed back to the stage—“we care about righting wrongs wherever we find them. But don’t just take my word for it. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Anton Begovic.”

A flap in the tent that was covering the prison entrance opened and a man stepped out. He was wearing a dark suit and a tie and his hair looked freshly cut. He stood for a moment, blinking in the sunlight. Then Brockman, who had done nothing up to that point, jumped down, took the guy’s arm, and helped him onto the stage.

The guy took the microphone and stepped forward. “Thank you all for being here. Thank you, Mr. Hix. Thank you, Mr. Brockman. And most of all, thank you to the Minerva corporation and everyone who is associated with it. When others wanted to lock me up, they fought to set me free. I am truly grateful, and I swear with you all as my witnesses that I will make the most of every second that has been given back to me.”

The guy waved, then Hix and Brockman shepherded him off the other side of the stage and into the BMW.

Jed ducked and tried to scramble under the barrier.

Reacher grabbed him, pulled him back, and wrapped an arm around his chest.

Jed wriggled and squirmed. “Let me go. I need to get to my dad. He’s not messed up. You guys are wrong.”

“I can’t let you go, Jed,” Reacher said. “Because that man is not your dad.”



* * *



—

Lev Emerson had stood at the entrance to the workshop just north of Vicksburg and watched the flames curl and flutter. He had watched the body twitch and twist. Brighter and faster then softer and gentler until the corner with the chains hanging from the ceiling was dull and limp and ordinary once more. He crossed the courtyard to where Graeber was waiting after stowing the barrel and checking his mapping apps for an abandoned paper mill near the town of Winson.

They drove in convoy, Graeber in front in the shiny black van that was expected at the paper mill, Emerson behind in his shabby white workhorse. They took a short jog east then settled in on a steady southbound heading until they hit the outskirts of Jackson. Then Graeber pulled into a gas station. When they were both done topping off their tanks Graeber pointed to a diner at the side of the site. It was nothing fancy. Just a long, low brick building with a flat roof and a neon sign promising good food.

“What do you think?” Graeber said. “Want to grab a bite? Some coffee? We have plenty of time.”

Emerson looked the place over. There were a dozen open parking spots outside its windows. It would be no problem to keep an eye on the white van. He said, “Sure. Why not?”



* * *



—

The inside of the diner was as simple and functional as the outside. There were ten four-tops, split into two lines of five. Plain furniture. A gray linoleum floor, scratched in places. A serving counter with two coffee machines. A clock on the wall. A framed map of the state. And a TV. A large one. It was the only newish thing in the place. It was tuned to a local news channel. The sound was off, but words summarizing the action were scrolling across a plain band at the bottom of the screen.

Emerson was facing the windows. He was glancing at a menu, wondering what to eat, then Graeber grabbed his forearm.

Graeber said, “The TV. Look.”

The screen was filled with the scene from outside the prison in Winson. A guy in a suit with a brand-new haircut was standing on a stage, speaking into a microphone. The text said, Exoneree Anton Begovic released from custody following successful appeal, thanks to Minerva Corporation. Minerva CEO Bruno Hix said…