No Plan B (Jack Reacher, #27)(87)

“Where are the Minerva guys now? Hix and Brockman and Carpenter?”

“In the house. The kitchen.”

“We can’t leave them unguarded.”

“They’re not going anywhere.”

“Under their own steam, perhaps. But what if some of their other guys come looking for them?”

“That’s why we need Harewood to bring the FBI.”

“What if they get rescued before the feds show up?”

“That’s a risk we’ll have to run. I can’t stay and watch them. I have to get to Begovic.”

“I’ll watch them. I’m not going to run and hide and leave them with the front door open. They killed Sam. I’m not going anywhere until they’re in custody. It’s my decision. My risk to run. And I have my SIG. I’m not afraid to use it. You saw that last night.”

Reacher said nothing.

Hannah said, “This other guy who’s lurking around. Is he a revolutionary or something? Or does he just have bad dress sense?”

“His name’s Maurice. He’s a journalist. He seems harmless.”

“He can babysit Jed, then.”

“I guess.”

“Jed was right. They are going to kill his dad. And I don’t see how you can stop them.”

“I have an idea.”

“The guy’s in a prison cell. You can’t break him out. You do know that? Sam studied the ways people try to escape. You need months to plan. To observe. To find sloppiness in the guards’ routines. Faulty equipment. Building failures. Staff who are vulnerable because they’re getting divorced or they drink or use drugs or gamble or are in debt. You need luck. And even then, ninety-nine percent of attempts fail.”

“My odds are a little better than that.”

“Really? What makes you think so?”

“Harold wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. And I saw four neat triangles of grass.”

Reacher parked the BMW on Harold’s driveway. His house was small and shabby. It was a single story with peeling paint, windows caked in dirt, a minimal porch, and a scruffy weed-filled yard. Reacher started with the mailbox. It was about set to overflow. He didn’t pay much attention to the kinds of letters that were in there. He just took an elastic band from the first bundle he found and moved on to the back door. It wasn’t hard to figure out which key to use from the collection in the pillowcase. It was the most scratched one. Reacher let himself in, crossed the kitchen quickly, and followed the corridor until he found Harold’s bedroom. He opened the closet. There was only one suit hanging there. It was black. A white formal shirt was on a hanger next to it. And rolled up in a drawer, a tie. Also black. Funeral attire, Reacher thought. But that didn’t bother him. It would be fine for what he needed. He changed into Harold’s clothes and put his own things in the pillowcase. Then he moved on to the garage.

There was theoretically room in it for three cars but two of the bays were taken up by weight-lifting equipment. There were pictures on the wall of Harold in weird spandex outfits grappling with all kinds of heavy objects. Tractors. Tires. Farm animals. A wheel of cheese. Reacher had questions. The third vehicle bay was empty. There were oil stains on the floor. The remains of a paint spill. Dried-up residue from other fluid leaks. But no logbook. No meticulous records had been kept. Probably no meaningful maintenance had ever taken place in there. Reacher crossed to the tiny worktable. He took a knife. A screwdriver. A hammer. And a roll of duct tape.

When he was back in the car Reacher took all the remaining cash out of the wallets in the pillowcase. He rolled it up, secured it with the elastic band he had taken, and put it in his pocket. He emptied everything out of the pillowcase except for the tools and the SIG. Slung the lanyard with the ID on it around his neck. And drove to the prison.



* * *



—

The little crowd had disappeared. So had the security guards and the camera operators. The only people left outside the prison were the contractors, who were strolling around, shifting the chairs, and stacking the dismantled pieces of fence. The tent was still obscuring the entrance, though it was less rigid than it had been. Its roof was sagging and its sides were billowing in the breeze. The surface of the stage had been removed. It was piled up in the back of a truck that was sitting next to the exposed framework. Reacher parked next to the truck. He climbed out of the BMW and started to march around and stare at the contractors like a boss. The contractors looked away and pretended they hadn’t seen him.

Reacher made his way to the entrance, leaned down like he was inspecting something, and gently set the roll of money on its side, next to the fence. Then he strolled back toward the BMW. When he was close he turned to the nearest trio of contractors.

“Hey,” Reacher yelled. “You three. Stop loafing around. Get that tent taken down. We’ve got visitors coming soon. How are they supposed to get to the entrance?”

The contractors grumbled and muttered and drifted away to do as they’d been told. Reacher took the pillowcase from the car and carried it to the truck by the stage. He opened the door and put it on the passenger seat. Then he stood back and watched the contractors. He waited. After a couple of minutes one of them noticed the wad of cash. He stepped closer to it. He leaned down to pick it up. But his greed and surprise had overridden his memory. He’d gotten too close to the fence. The sensors under the ground detected his footsteps. They fired off instant signals to the security computers in the control room. A klaxon sounded. Red lights flashed. All the floodlights in the complex came on at once. And all the nearby cameras rotated on their posts to give the operators the clearest possible view of the cause of the problem.